Lineage IV
by ruth baulding
Summary: AU!Jedi Apprentice. Book 4: Master and apprentice endure a stint with the Agri-Corps, and find that trouble has a way of coming home to haunt them. Featuring a pile of bantha poodoo, a tentacled carnivorous plant, a desperate escaped convict, and a highly provocative young woman.
1. Chapter 1

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**1.**

* * *

"It has _tentacles, _master."

Jedi master Qui Gon Jinn emptied a canister of purified water into soil surrounding the thing's root ball, and nonchalantly tossed the lightweight metal bottle over his shoulder.

His Padawan caught the smooth object in one hand. "And _teeth."_

"Don't center on your anxieties, Obi Wan."

The young Jedi heaved in a resigned breath and set the bottle upon an inset ledge with crisp precision. "Yes, master. I'll be sleeping outside tonight."

Qui Gon half-turned, looking at his apprentice suspiciously over one shoulder. The smile lines around his eyes deepened slightly. "To avoid an intimate encounter with this plant?" he inquired, teasingly.

"I prefer my bedfellows to be neither carnivorous nor tentacled."

The tall man's brows rose humorously. "I was not aware of your particularities in that regard…You've become quite a man of the world while I wasn't paying attention."

The young Jedi flushed a deep crimson and bowed curtly. "I'll be in the Agri Dome… communing with the Living Force," he grumbled, and departed at a smart clip, leaving Qui Gon alone with his latest pathetic life form.

It wasn't a bad plant, really, the Jedi master mused. But Alepo Sator, the director of the Agri-corps station here on Ord Ursolon, had banished it from the protective enclave of the greenhouse domes on grounds of aggressive and invasive behavioral patterns, dooming it to an untimely demise in the wastelands outside the cultivated region tended by the Republic Service Corps. Qui Gon had rescued it, of course; and while some – such as his young and precociously cynical Padawan – might regard the creature as a nuisance, the magnanimous Jedi master knew that much depended on one's point of view, and that this manifestation of Life's infinite variety deserved continued existence no less than any other individual.

And the Jedi existed to protect the downtrodden, did they not?

He chuckled and folded his hands into opposite sleeves, glancing through the pre-fab housing unit's narrow window. His apprentice was visible outside, crossing the lamentably dead lawn with its "Do not Tread on the Grass" sign posted in six common Galactic languages, making a rapid beeline for the glittering curve of the nearest greenhouse dome. Inside the agri-bubbles, it was warm and humid; out there, on Ord Ursulon's winter-stricken surface, the temperature was bitter, and the dust laced with an acidic tang that slowly scoured away skin and stung in the eyes. Obi Wan was moving fast, his long stride bespeaking strength and grace. Four weeks of more or less quiet service under Alepo's watchful and stern eye had done much to insure the young Jedi's recovery from illness… as well as his understanding of the Jedi path, and the humility demanded of those who aspired to Knighthood in the Order.

When the youth had disappeared inside the dome's shelter, Qui Gon turned from the window and went to coax the dilapidated comm. equipment into making a brief transmission to Coruscant.

* * *

Senior Healer Ben To Li stroked his silver-streaked beard. "Yes, I've perused the med droid's latest scan… this all looks very good. Of course, it's not the same as a personal examination. But he appears to be quite recovered. How much longer is your assignment out there?"

Qui Gon adjusted the holotransmitter to eliminate some of the static interference, focusing BenTo's image more clearly. "Two more standard weeks. The Council stipulated a full duty-rotation. And I think Alepo Sator has been a very salutary influence."

The healer snorted. "I defy any sentient being to truly curb your Padawan's spirit." He held up one gnarled hand, placatingly. "But two more weeks won't do any harm. Send me another blood sample tonight, and if all's well, I'll clear him for light exercise. That should make him happy."

Qui Gon nodded. "Thank you, Ben To. May the Force be with you."

The healer pointed an admonitory finger at the holocam. "And don't even think about smuggling home some Force-forsaken rare specimen. I remember a certain incident thirty-some years ago, when-"

"The past no longer exists," Qui Gon reminded him, and cut the link.

* * *

"Is that all of them?" Alepo Sator, horticulturalist extraordinaire, demanded. "Every last stinking one?"

Obi Wan wiped his hands on his pants. "Yes, sir."

The hunchbacked botanist snorted in satisfaction. "Good work. Those little barves would have overrun this entire facility in a month's time – most aggressive plant I've ever encountered in the galaxy. Nasty piece of chisszk, and hard to uproot."

The young Jedi nodded. He'd been obliged to use the Force to rip several of the more tenacious specimens out of their moorings. And some of those he had pulled up by hand had left him with a stinging rash, even through the protective cloth of his gloves. "What are they?" he asked, curious.

But Alepo shrugged, his misshapen back rising and falling with the motion. "Who knows. Never seen them anywhere else. I suppose you should keep a specimen or two. You can run them through the analyzer later, send a report in to the Astrobiological Society. They'll want a tissue sample, too – think you can extract one without mixing in your own cells? I don't want a frantic transmission incoming telling me I've got a vaping Force-sensitive weed on my hands."

Obi Wan grinned, and persisted at it until the botanist's somber face gave way, splitting into a reluctant reflection of his mirth.

"I'll do my best, sir."

"Kriff it, boy, your best is a sorry excuse for mediocre. You aren't cut out for a farmer, though you do work hard."

"I could learn," the Padawan protested, though he understood, after four long weeks of Alepo's cantankerous company, that his venom was mild, and empty of real malice.

The horticultural expert wiped sweat from his brow. It was sweltering under the transparent dome roof. Filtered afternoon sunlight beamed down upon the teeming greenery. "Just finish digging that irrigation trench on the east side, then get that sample out to the Society and grab some dinner. I'm done with you for the day. I 'spect your Jedi master has some mystical nonsense for you to do this evening."

Obi Wan bowed, and grabbed a digging tool. "Yes, thank you," he said, jogging away to work on the backbreaking trench project.

Alepo Sator adjusted his wide-brimmed hat and kicked the bucket of dead weeds. "Kriffing filthy little barves," he muttered. "Not under my roof, you don't."

* * *

Obi Wan eyed the newcomer warily as he entered, bearing a laden tray. The plant did not acknowledge his presence with so much as a wriggling tendril.

"I thought you were sleeping outside tonight?" Qui Gon enquired, rising from his meditation and helping set the dinner things upon the room's single low table.

"There's a dust storm forecast," the young Jedi informed him placidly, helping himself to a towering heap of foodstuffs. "…I didn't want you to be lonely and afraid when the wind starts blowing."

The tall man inclined his head. "You are a paragon of compassion."

"I could get used to this," the Padawan remarked, savoring his first bites. "The kitchen staff here could teach the Temple droids a thing or two."

"Hm. I'm glad you are enjoying yourself," Qui Gon replied, serving himself. "Ben To hinted that you might need to stay here convalescing another six weeks."

His apprentice's dismay was a vibrant pang in the Force.

"Not so, I lie," Qui Gon smirked.

Obi Wan scowled and applied himself to his supper again. "What did he really say?"

"That you seem well on the path to recovery and he might consider clearing you for light exercise – _which,"_ he hastened to add, "Does not mean sparring."

When they had finished the excellent meal, fabricated entirely from locally grown produce, Qui Gon withdrew a sampler from his compact medkit and drew the requisite drop of blood from his apprentice's finger. The tiny device slotted easily into his comlink. "I'll send this to BenTo when the dust storm subsides. In the meanwhile, what about a hand of sabaac to while away the lazy hours?"

Obi Wan shrugged nonchalantly. "As long as our _friend_ isn't playing." He jerked his head in the direction of the potted menace lurking discreetly on the ledge between the room's two narrow sleep-cots.

"You're no match for it, anyway," the Jedi master assured him.

* * *

The dust storm arrived as promised in the darkest stretches of Ord Ursolon's long night. The roof of the Agro-Corps housing structure rattled and groaned like a junk freighter hitting a solar flare, but remained mercifully intact. Qui Gon woke to the noise and the general disturbance in the Force, noting with a wry smile that his Padawan suffered no such interruption in his sleep. The boy was sprawled across his sleep cot, one leg and most the thermal blanket hanging over its edge in an untidy bundle. _Almost_ entirely recovered was not equivalent to _entirely _ recovered; the ability to sleep soundly through a class three storm indicated a certain lingering weariness, a need for rest. Qui Gon nudged one of the carnivorous plant's tentacles away from the Padawan's ear, where it had been fondly coiling, tiny suckers extended in a slow botanical caress. He briefly considered moving the pot altogether, but there was no need to be _fastidious._

Outside, the howling storm obscured all but the hump-backed silhouettes of the protective domes. The massive transparisteel canopies seemed so many ephemeral bubbles compared to the violence of the assault; and yet they withstood the gale, the scourge of particulate matter the winds threw against them. Beneath their curves, young green things flourished, growing in peace until they were hardy enough to weather the planet's harsh climate on their own. If this dust storm was anything to judge by, it would take many long generations to fully establish the restoration of Ord Ursolon's ecosystem. It was along term cause, fought for tooth and claw in hundreds of minor skirmishes against the power of nature. He watched the screaming, red-hued wind in fascination.

"Master?"

"So you are awake. The storm?"

"I was thinking."

The tall man quirked a smile his apprentice could not see, still watching the progress of the furious storm.

"You've killed before, master."

It was not a question. Qui Gon did not answer immediately. What a night, and how wrathful the whipping eddies of wind, into what a moaning did they set the rafters of this flimsy shelter. "Yes," he replied eventually.

"How did you choose to do it?" his Padawan wanted to know.

The Jedi master turned then. Obi Wan lay still, twisted around his blanket, face highlighted in red by the angry light filtering through the window. "It was not I, but the Force, that made that decision," he said heavily. "Each time."

The Padawan frowned. "And you chose to serve the Force's will."

He nodded. "I have sworn an oath. That is my life."

"So then, you chose to kill." Obi Wan pushed the logical conclusion.

Qui Gon thoughtfully sat upon the edge of the narrow cot. "From a certain point of view, perhaps. It is not one which brings wisdom, but neither is it one which should be ignored. Why do you ask?"

Obi Wan stared at the ceiling, the ugly acoustic paneling, as though wondering whether it would blow apart under the stress of the pressure differential outside. Qui Gon half wondered the same thing. "I committed genocide today," the young Jedi announced, with a crisp enunciation that indicated emotional distancing. His mouth twisted a little to one side, a bitter laugh just squeezing past his reserve.

"In the greenhouses," Qui Gon clarified, not liking this black vein of humor.

"Alepo felt it was best," Obi Wan continued, academically. "It was only a plant species. A weed, in his judgment. And it would have choked out all the others. But we uprooted every bit of it; there isn't any left."

Qui Gon sighed. "I am rubbing off on you," he smiled, heart heavy.

His apprentice let his head roll sideways, toward the wall. "Alepo made the decision easily. For the common good, of course," he said, flatly. "It was a simple matter."

"From his point of view," Qui Gon reminded him, leaning down to pick up the forgotten blanket. He gathered its folds in his broad hands, letting the soft fabric trail through fingers lightly calloused by decades of martial training. "He is a fierce and prudent guardian of his crops and orchards."

"And we are guardians of peace," Obi Wan added.

There were two 'sabers resting on the ledge beneath the unadorned window: his and Obi Wan's. Weapons of deadly power. Symbols of peace. "Yes."

A heavy silence. "I think Alepo is sleeping soundly right now," Obi Wan observed.

"No doubt," his mentor agreed. He reached over and tugged on the boy's short braid, regaining his attention. "As you should be also."

He spread the blanket out, and pressed a hand against his apprentice's furrowed forehead, nudging him back into slumber, and then deeper, almost a healing trance. The storm made the support struts of their shelter creak and snap, but the plasteel did not break under the strain.

Qui Gon lay back down upon his own narrow bed. But it was long before sleep finally claimed him..


	2. Chapter 2

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"Blast it!"

Obi Wan sighed, wiping the analyzer plate clean for the third time. The gossamer-fine thread of vegetable protein on the slide scanner fluttered in his breath as he leaned too close, more than likely depositing _more_ foreign DNA on the sample. Simmering with frustration and wondering darkly why the Agri-Corps could not afford a more updated model, one that included a simple steri-filter, he dumped the ruined specimen in the refuse receptacle and tried _again. _

And then the end of his _braid_ brushed against the new sample just as he was ready to slot it into the analyzer.

"Son of a misbegotten Sith-whore!" he hissed, clutching the edge of the laboratory counter with both hands, resentment boiling over into the Force.

Qui Gon's delicate cough, issued from the vicinity of the doorway, had him wheeling about instantaneously, a melting heat rising like magma into his neck and cheeks, shame spreading molten in his belly. "Master! I …I …" He bowed his head, wishing at that moment that the Force would take him.

"It is frustrating, " the tall Jedi master observed, stepping past him to gaze at the bungled project. "But a trifling failure does not merit such a loss of composure and decorum." He adroitly prepared the slide anew, levitated it into the analyzer with a skillful use of the Force, and the set the machine to work, as though he were a biochemist by trade. "There," he said, sweeping his Padawan's mess into the garbage bin and turning around once more. "What I should like to know is why you did not simply _ask for assistance."_

"I'm sorry, master."

"That does not answer my question, Padawan."

The young Jedi squirmed in place. "Obstinate self-sufficiency," he muttered, miserably.

Qui Gon nodded, serenely, folding his hands into opposite sleeves. "Which springs from…?"

Obi Wan looked up at him, pleadingly, but the tall man merely raised an eyebrow, expectant.

"Lack of humility," the boy dutifully responded, addressing the scuffed floor.

"So long as we are in agreement on that," Qui Gon replied, heading for the door. "Come with me."

His shadow trailed behind him along the narrow corridor, and out the Agri-Corps headquarters main entrance. This morning, Ord Ursolon was only freezing; last night's dust storm had raised the ambient temperature a few degrees. Dust lay in deep drifts against the east-facing walls and struts of the prefab buildings. They crossed the main yard at a smart clip, boots crunching the dead and frozen grasses underfoot.

"I spoke with Ben To while you were , ah, working in the lab," the Jedi master offered as they made for the greenhouse domes. "He suggested that you take up some form of light exercise."

"That's good news," Obi Wan ventured, teeth chattering in the frosty air.

"Yes." Qui Gon stopped, gazing idly about the outbuildings of the Service Corps station, the far-flung boundaries of this lonely outpost. "Why don't you start now? I think a brisk run…say, all the way round the outside perimeter, would be very healthy. And it might improve your vocabulary ,too," he added, with a tight smile.

"Yes, master," his apprentice mumbled, shivering.

Qui Gon relieved him of his cloak and waved him away, watching in amusement as a tentative jog quickly transformed to a flat out sprint. The Ag-Corps reserve was rather large, and the morning air…. brisk. He decided to seek the warmth and shelter of the domes, chuckling quietly to himself.

* * *

Despite his hunched back, the result of a deforming and rare muscular-skeletal disease contracted in early childhood, Alepo Sator was a very spry individual. He nipped over a tall hedge of flowering bean shoots and stride across the rows of cultivated beds inside the dome.

"Master Jinn!" he called out. "'Bout time you Jedi rose off your sleep couches and started your day. Time for you to earn your keep here."

Qui Gon bowed to the station's crotchety director of operations. "We come to serve."

Alepo thrust one earth-stained hand toward the distant curve of the dome's buttressing system. "Look there – wind storm's stressed that girder. We'll need to lift a replacement up there before tonight."

The Jedi master studied the high fretwork of the dome's support structure, gauging the distance and the probable weight of the massive beam. It would make a fine training exercise in controlled Force manipulation. "Yes," he murmured. "We can do that. It will be our pleasure. Do you have a spare in storage here on the base?"

Alepo shook his head. "Coming in to the spaceport this afternoon. You and that sprout of yours can pick 'er up. I've got plenty to oversee here, can't afford the trip. Speaking of which, where is my labor force? The day's a-wasting."

"He's on his way," Qui Gon assured the impatient botanist.

On cue, Obi Wan appeared through the far doors, flushed with exertion and breathing deeply. "Master," he panted, making a formal bow to Qui Gon.

"You're late," Alepo Sator snapped. "What happened to strict Jedi discipline, eh?"

The Padawan cast a brief glance at his elder and then bowed to Alepo. "My apologies," he said, voiced pitched perfectly to express mild contrition. "Sending the biosample proved more difficult than I anticipated."

The horticulturalist snorted. "Well, let's set you to a task better suited to your talent. I want that irrigation ditch finished today."

Obi Wan's mouth thinned, but he did not register an objection. "Of course."

Alepo grinned and strode away, his hunched form melding into the mottled shadows of his domain.

"Well?" Qui Gon inquired, looking complacently down upon his apprentice. "Did your brief jaunt result in new insight?"

"Yes, master." Obi Wan hefted a long-handled digging tool in one hand. His gaze slid sideways and then met his mentor's. "I realize that I have been arrogant, and must recognize limitations. There are many things I cannot hope to accomplish without help."

Qui Gon nodded in approval.

The Padawans' dimples made a brief appearance. "For instance," he said, slyly, "This trench. I cannot possibly complete this task in the time allotted. I humbly ask your assistance, my master."

The Jedi master's eyes gleamed as he suppressed a laugh. "You learn quickly."

"I have a fine teacher."

Resigned to a morning's hard manual labor, Qui Gon accepted the proffered tool and followed his Padawan to the east side, where the half-finished ditch awaited their tender ministrations.

* * *

Obi Wan was a cautious pilot, by Jedi standards; although he pushed the rattling landspeeder along Ord Ursolon's desiccated landscape at a speed certainly over the legal limit – a restriction never enforced by the overburdened and understaffed planetary security – it was well within the bounds dictated by his Force-honed reflexes. He swerved around obstacles in long, graceful arcs, and kept the repulsors at low, hugging the dry earth as closely as possible. Qui Gon sat in the passenger seat, one arm stretched out along the vehicle's rusting side panel. The wind howled around them, buffeting them despite the cockpit damping field.

The spaceport was nothing more than a huddled collection of hangar bays and maintenance stations. A fueling platform had been erected at one end of the disorderly sprawl, and a line of supply shops and warehouses hunched along its northern boundary. The Jedi edged their speeder through the sparse ground traffic, halting before the massive doors of a ramshackle shipping house.

Here there was ice on the cracked duracrete tarmac, though the sun was well past meridian. Obi Wan pulled the heavy folds of an old duster over his shoulders. The garment- a worn favorite belonging to Qui Gon – reached past his knees and draped in thick folds over his tunics. Devoid of the customary robe, Padawan braid tucked into his nerftail, no lightsaber at his side, it was impossible for an outsider to identify him as a Jedi. He walked beside Qui Gon, subdued, as they entered the echoing warehouse and waited for the proprietor droid to totter forward in greeting.

"Oh, yes," the rusted manager burbled, surveying the Agri-Corps invoice on its datapad. "This way. The item is oversized; we will be charging an extra shipping fee. Will you require repulsor sleds for towing?"

"Yes, thank you."

The droid creaked away to oversee the hitching of the massive durasteel beam to the landspeeder's frame. Mouse droids and a gonk model zipped and lumbered by, respectively. Obi Wan gathered the duster's folds tight about his body and shifted in place, breath escaping in impatient white clouds.

Qui Gon frowned at the slow-moving droid crew puttering in the warehouse's furthest recesses. It was cold – though a Jedi ought to be able to maintain his body temperature for some time, his apprentice had barely recovered from a severe illness. He opted for the prudent course of action. "This could take a while," he decided ruefully, as the mechanical crew quarreled and crashed about in the background "Let's have a look at the local cantina."

Obi Wan's brows rose, but the prospect of waiting in the frigid shipping yards was by no means appealing, so he trotted eagerly along beside Qui Gon as the tall man strode across the spaceport to the line of dilapidated storefronts on its opposite side. The wind plucked at their hems, raked claws through hair and across skin. They were both grateful to attain the shelter of the sole public house.

"You got ID, son?" The portly bartender squinted dubiously at Obi Wan when they entered the warm, muggy interior of the low-roofed building.

"He's old enough," Qui Gon placidly asserted, passing one hand through the air in a subtle gesture.

The man nodded, splaying hands upon the countertop. "He's old enough. What's your drink, gentlemen?

"Two Bombshells, one of them virgin," the Jedi master promptly ordered.

He expected some form of objection from his companion, but the young Jedi's attention had been distracted by the holonet projector buzzing away in its corner. A stream of insipid gossip column items and newsreels flickered unsteadily over the plate, garishly colored. The unit was old and produced a wavering, badly focused image.

"Scramball scores, my Padawan?" he jested.

"Master… there was a news piece – a moment ago. Just a mention. There was a jailbreak in the Mograsshi sector- from the Illixi Detention center. That's a Republic high security prison facility, isn't it?"

The barkeep slid their bright blue and green drinks across the polished countertop. Qui Gon placed a credit chit upon the smooth surface and cautiously sipped at his own beverage. "Yes."

"That's very near here," Obi Wan pressed on. "Do you think the Council will call on us to investigate? The Senate will certainly ask for Jedi intervention."

Qui Gon set his glass down. "We are not the only Jedi in the galaxy," he pointed out, calmly. "And _you_ are otherwise engaged."

"But if you contacted Coruscant, master, I'm sure –"

"There is no if, young one. And the Council knows precisely where to find me, should my services be required. At the moment, we have other pressing duties, such as the repair of Alepo's Agri-dome buttressing."

Obi Wan was discontent with this answer. He lapsed into an introspective silence, sipping at his own , much less potent, drink and watching the bar patrons trickle on and out of the establishment's doors.

"There is no need to go looking for more trouble, Obi Wan," the tall man assured him. "It has a way of seeking you out, in my experience."

The Padawan scowled into his half-empty glass. "It seems… wrong… to stay here doing nothing when there is an important matter demanding attention elsewhere," he protested.

"Ah." Qui Gon regarded his apprentice sagely. "But you have much to learn. We are not _doing nothing. _ We are serving where we are needed. And importance very much depends on one's point of view. You may not think the Agri-domes worthy of your attention as a Jedi, but to Alepo and the people who hope to cultivate this world's land, they are of prime importance. If you exist to serve the needy, then by whose standard should you judge what cause is worthy? Your own or that of others?"

A difficult question. Obi Wan's hands slipped under the duster as he folded his arms across his chest. "Humility," he said.

"Yes." Qui Gon finished his drink in one long pull. "Let's go see about that girder, shall we?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**3.**

* * *

Qui Gon tied the blindfold in place securely.

"Someday I should like to know why every blasted thing I do must be-"

Obi Wan's grumbling tirade was interrupted by a colossal thud as the droids steering the replacement girder into the dome made a slight miscalculation and rammed the durasteel beam into the support struts. The far reaches of the roof rattled in dismay.

"For stars' sake," Alepo Sator snapped, gesticulating furiously at the inept droids. "No. there…yes, there, and put it between these two rows…so help me, you piece of vaping junk, you _touch_ that mardangea bean and I'll send you through the composter! Yes! Just _put it down."_

Qui Gon watched in amusement as the mechanical help scurried away, fleeing before the horticulturalist's highly verbal wrath. "Are we ready, Alepo?"

"Droids," the botanist sniffed. He glanced at Qui Gon's apprentice, kneeling nearby with his eyes covered by a thin band of cloth. "You Jedi always put on a carnival show?"

The tall man smiled enigmatically and pointed to the roof. "I presume the damaged piece has to be removed first?" The two chastened droids were already hovering near the ceiling, welding and ratcheting appliances fitted into their utili-sockets

Alepo thrust his gnarled hands into his belt. "Yes. Your services are much appreciated," he added. "It would take another two days to get the proper lifting equipment sent over from Ord Froma, and I'm expecting another storm any day. Tonight, possibly."

Qui Gon nodded, and knelt down beside his Padawan while the agricultural director watched from a polite distance.

"What are we doing, master?"

"We are going to lift the cracked girder out of the scaffolding and lower it to the gravsleds – genty," Qui Gon informed him. "Without touching the mardangea beans."

"Force forbid," Obi Wan muttered, dryly.

"I will guide you.," the Jedi master continued. "Open yourself to the Living Force, and follow my prompting."

"Yes, master."

It was a relatively simple task. The Force flowed through them, around them, binding all things together. He could feel Obi Wan sink into its currents, his bright presence nestled beneath Qui Gon's, steady and serene. Together, in a luminous realm where _distance_ and _otherness_ were mere overtones in a greater unity, they held the massive object aloft while the droids finished removing the bolts and braces that kept it in place amidst the buttressing system. Then, as though wafting a delicate bubble down to earth, they lowered the beam to the soft soil of the garden floor. It settled upon the waiting hover-trolleys with the slightest creaking groan. And the Jedi released it, exhaling in unison, Light seeming to swirl and dance with the loamy dust clouds.

Alepo Sator cursed reverently under his breath. Qui Gon opened his eyes and spared the botanist a brief smile.

"Now," the Jedi master instructed his student. "We must raise the new beam into place and hold it while the droids secure it in place. " He paused. "And I think this time, you will guide _me."_

Obi Wan balked at that suggestion. "Master… I don't know whether…that is, if it _slips-"_

"There is no try," Qui Gon reminded him. "And I will be here to make up for any deficiency in focus or skill. The mardangea beans are safe."

This was sufficient reassurance. "Yes, master."

Once again, they slipped beneath and beyond ordinary awareness. The Force surged round them, blurring self and other, world and body. Obi Wan raised his hands, fingers curling upward softly, and the heavy girder lifted from its hover-sled, floating slowly upward to the roof and the waiting droids. The object wobbled, steadied, and continued to ascend, until it reached the trestlework above. A nudge, a subtle shift, and it slotted into place, and stayed there, flouting every law of physics, while the droids industriously set about welding and bolting it into the surrounding beams.

"Beautiful," Alepo muttered.

Qui Gon touched his Padawan's shoulder and removed the blindfold. "Well done."

Obi Wan looked up at the repaired stretch of roofing, a small smile of satisfaction lighting his eyes. "Thank you , master. I could not have accomplished it without your help."

The tall man raised his brows. "I did nothing."

A line appeared between his apprentice's brows. "But…I felt…and you said…"

"I said I would make up for any deficiency on your part. There was none; and so, I was not needed. Why does that disturb you?"

The young Jedi's frown deepened, but he bowed his head respectfully, lapsing into a pensive silence. Alepo Sator shouted out final instructions to the droid crew and paced back and forth along the orchard rows, surveying the repairs from every possible angle.

"I'm keeping you around," he grunted, pointing one long finger at Obi Wan. "You Jedi make excellent farm equipment. Maybe you can think up some other way to tick off that Council of yours, earn another round of duty here."

"Ah…" Obi Wan sought for a diplomatic answer. "Such an assignment would hardly qualify as punitive. It is my pleasure to serve," he tried.

Alepo's sunbeaten face rumpled into a sarcastic grin. "Sycophant," he grunted. "Maybe you're better off with them politicians after all."

"I'm not brave enough for politics," the young Jedi objected, with a hearty shudder.

The botanist snorted, a soft explosion of mirth. "Jinn, take him away and feed him. I'm beholden to both of you."

The Jedi bowed and departed, leaving Alepo happily puttering among the tidy rows of bean shoots.

* * *

"I think it's _growing,"_ Obi Wan muttered, portentously, as he prodded at the tentacled thing with one finger. A long tendril uncoiled and wrapped itself about the offending digit. He quickly withdrew his hand.

"Most things do, when properly nurtured," Qui Gon observed, stretching out on his sleep cot. "Even you." He carefully smothered his smile behind one hand.

His apprentice shot him an acid look and pushed the pot along the ledge until it stood at the extremity closest to the master's bed.

"Obi Wan."

"I'm sorry, master, but it was very… intrusive… last night."

The tall man crossed his ankles and relaxed, waving the lights off. "Pheremonal response. It's attracted to your anxiety. If you would simply relax, my young Padawan, it would swiftly lose interest."

There was a sigh and a muffled thump as his apprentice dropped onto his own cot. "You didn't help with that girder this evening," Obi Wan said, after a short pause.

Qui Gon used the Force to discreetly scoot the plant back to the center of its ledge. "No. There was no need, as I said. You handled the task beautifully."

A short silence, and then, "But I _know_ that I didn't lift it by myself. I could feel another presence augmenting mine. I don't understand."

"You _expected_ me to be supplementing your efforts, and so you were completely open to assistance, content not to be relying solely on your own strength. The Force is a powerful ally to those who are willing to accept its help."

"Oh." Obi Wan rolled to his side, and the plant's pot slid a half-meter toward Qui Gon again. "I… that is unexpected."

"Meditate on it," the Jedi master advised. "You think of serving the Force as pouring out every last scrap of your considerable talent to do its bidding; but perhaps you should think of obedience not as devoting _your_ strength to the Force's cause, so much as making yourself a vessel of its strength. _That,_ young one, is what humility means."

It was a great deal to digest, so late at night. But the lesson was needed, and valuable. He pushed the pot back to the very center of its shelf. "And do not move that plant again," he added, sternly.

"….Yes, master."

Eventually, they all three nodded off into quiet slumber, weary limbs, tumultuous thoughts, and over-curious tentacles gently subsiding into peaceful rest.

* * *

There was no dust storm that night, as Alepo had feared; instead, the plummeting temperatures brought a meteorological novelty. When Qui Gon glanced out the narrow housing unit window at dawn, the Agri-Corps grounds were covered in a generous blanket of snow. It piled high against the greenhouse domes, and its gently curving drifts transformed the landscape to a soft ocean of glittering white. The first rays of sunlight stroked this palette with exquisite delicacy, painting broad strokes of color over the flawless expanse.

"Obi Wan."

"Mmmn-rr."

Qui Gon fastened the window's thermal shutters, and roused his apprentice with a swift braid-tugging. "Up. Time for some light exercise."

The Padawan's eyes blinked open groggily. "Sparring?" he croaked in a voice still hoarse with slumber.

The Jedi master tossed boots, tunics, and the duster in his general direction, fastening his own belt and shrugging into his heavy cloak. "No. Something even better. Come. You have one minute."

It was precisely two and a half minutes before the young Jedi stumbled out of the adjacent 'fresher, fully if sloppily dressed, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, and visibly suppressing a wide yawn. "…Ready, master." Qui Gon decided to let the tardiness slide this time. They would work on _instant_ alertness – a sometimes indispensable skill on missions – at a later time. Now, he had other plans.

Obi Wan squinted blearily at the bright swath of unsullied snow, and hesitated upon the threshold of the housing unit.

"Let's go," Qui Gon ordered, boldly leading the way forward. An icy wind stung at their faces, wrung tears from their eyes. He ploughed a short tunnel into the high white drifts, pushing with his legs and the Force, and glanced over one shoulder to be sure his Padawan was following doggedly behind. Ten meters from the prefab dwelling, he halted. "This will do."

Obi Wan's vexed exhalation was a tongue of white flame disappearing in the frigid morning air. He clutched the duster's folds tight, grimacing. "Why are we here, master?" he demanded, petulance faintly edging his tone.

"I thought you were eager for some light exercise… indeed, your desire to spar with me gave the impression that your lust for savage combat is undiminished, despite four weeks' peaceable occupation."

The young Jedi's eyes narrowed mutinously. "It is _cold, _ master."

He waved an amicable hand. "Then go back indoors."

Incredulous, but unwilling to question the command lest it be summarily revoked, Obi Wan turned and marched back along the white-walled canyon. He made it four paces down the path before the first snowball slammed into his left shoulder, spattering shards of ice over his clothing and into his short hair.

He wheeled, mouth open, and took the next projectile in the jaw.

And in the next moment, Qui Gon was fighting hard to defend himself from a similar onslaught. The Force provided them both with ample arsenal; towering waves of ice and slush replaced the standard issue ammunition. Thrown weapons were turned out of their course in midair; makeshift cover was torn down and strewn in every direction. The hailstorm did not abate until both participants were sopping wet, frozen to the bone, and grinning with a rarely witnessed abandon.

"Peace," the tall man called out, holding up both hands in a conciliatory gesture. "A truce."

He took two more hits squarely in the midriff, and then grunted as he took the full impact of his Padawan, too, nearly losing his footing and going over backward into the trampled snow. They tussled, sliding perilously in the slick, hard-packed ice underfoot, and then fell in a heap of sodden clothing and flailing limbs, ending in an undignified heap some meters away.

Their unrestrained laughter flushed a few scavenging birds out of their roosting places with raucous cries of disapproval.

"Brat," Qui Gon gasped, levering himself upright. "You will never make a good diplomat."

"Aggressive negotiations, " Obi Wan wheezed, using the Jedi master to steady himself as he regained his feet.

"I see many, many early morning runs in your future, Padawan."

"I would prefer _sparring, _ master, if it's all the same to you."

The Jedi master's chuckle faded into a wry smile. "Ben To is going to have my hide," he realized, abruptly sobering. "Quick. Inside the dome."

The Agri-dome was a short distance away. Qui Gon carved a path through the gleaming snow, and they hurried into the welcoming heat beneath the vast curve of its transparent roof. They stripped down to their trousers, reveling in the hot flush of returning sensation in toes and fingers. The greenhouse was quiet and soothing, and aglow with a joyful morning light, They stood wordlessly and basked in the moment, the frost on their hair and skin transforming to a coiling steam in the heady warmth..

And then Qui Gon's comlink rudely buzzed for his attention.

"Jinn."

To his surprise, the transmission was from Jedi Master Adi Gallia.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**4.**

* * *

"Padawan," Adi Gallia addressed her apprentice. "Locate Alepo Sator, the director here. We will need to use his communications center. If he is willing, set up a standard relay base signal on Republic pulse-band Aurek three."

"Yes, master," Siri Tachi responded demurely, bowing.

"If he's not in headquarters," Qui Gon advised the young woman, "Try the laboratory outbuilding or the Agri-domes."

"Thank you, Master Jinn, I will," the Padawan nodded, hurrying away on her errand.

Adi and Qui Gon quickly moved from the ship's boarding ramp to the shelter of the nearest structure, a storage barn for yet-to-be harvested grain crops.

"I was not aware Ord Ursolon was subject to snow storms," the elegant Tholothian Jedi stated, her eyes roving over the frost-coated landscape.

"I believe the Service Corps projects can boast of moderate success. Increased precipitation is a result of flourishing plant life. The water cycle is the first priority in a restoration project like this; though snow is more of a problem than a benefit."

Adi Gallia was a diplomat, the scion of a well-placed Core family. Agriculture was not her passion. "I've been sent to collect you," she said, cutting straight to business. "The prison break on Illixi needs swift intervention."

"I assumed as much," Qui Gon replied. "Who was responsible?"

The tails of Adi's headdress stirred as she turned her head to face him. "It was an inside job- guard corruption, all the usual. Over a dozen vital prisoners in the affected bloc made an escape; but we think it was masterminded by Soll Carthag."

The tall man said nothing.

Adi's deep, mellifluous voice conveyed a minute degree of disgust. "As you can imagine, the Council is eager to see him apprehended again. Several other teams have been assigned to hunt down the other escapees. You and I –"

"Are to find Carthag."

"We will use this Republic Service Corps station as a communications hub," his companion continued, matter of factly. "My Padawan can oversee the search effort and coordinate the interchange. It will be a good training exercise for her."

Qui Gon lifted his brows. "And keep her out of the way."

Adi resented his bluntness. Her generous lips pressed together in displeasure. "I'm not taking my Padawan anywhere near that monster," she said, tightly. "And neither are you. By the Council's express mandate."

He nodded, releasing a long breath. "A wise decision."

"We'll leave as soon as Siri has the signal established," Adi added. "The sooner he's back in prison, the better for the galaxy at large."

Qui Gon could not have agreed more. Obi Wan would not take the news well; but they had come here to practice humility and obedience, had they not? "I'll be prepared," he answered heavily.

This was a duty he could not possibly neglect.

* * *

Obi Wan was up to his elbows in bantha dung.

If he had ever harbored any doubt that Alepo Sator's inspired choice of chores and tasks for his temporary underling had been made in conspiracy with Qui Gon Jinn, those doubts were forever dispelled by this morning's assignment.. A mountain of reeking fertilizer had been deposited in the Agri-dome's far corner by early delivery; and Alepo had blithely informed the young Jedi that this rich and malodorous excrement was to be spread evenly over the entire extent of the cultivated beds and orchard plots in the massive greenhouse.

He had barely begun the unsavory task, and he was already _filthy._ And the dome was sweltering, in contrast to the snow thawing outside, running in messy rivulets down the lower reaches of the glass walls. The humidity was oppressive; perspiration ran down his bare back and spattered in the dark, reeking heap of dried dung.

Several imaginative imprecations sprung to mind, but he was making a conscious effort to curtail his more inventive deployments of vocabulary, in accord with Qui Gon's wishes.

He shoved the digging tool into the odiferous heap with the ferocity of a trained warrior, and flipped a hefty lump of fertilizer into the hover-barrow near at hand. _Humility,_ he reminded himself. _Service where it is needed._ His next strike sank the haft of his improvised weapon a meter's length into the stinking mess. If he could just…._spar,_ or even practice _kata…_ The thick scoopful was flung tartly atop the others. He idly spun the tool in a salute and then reversed grip and plunged it backhanded into the filth again. _Take that._

"Nice," a slightly husky, slightly sardonic female voice remarked behind him.

He spun, startled, and appalled that he _was_ startled – because now that his mind was back in the present moment, he immediately felt the newcomer's Force signature – and clamped his mouth shut.

Padawan Tachi. Here. In the Agri-dome. Recognition did not ameliorate his feeling of being caught off-balance. It was a good thing the heat inside the dome had already flushed his skin with exertion; otherwise his embarrassment might be markedly visible. He swallowed and inclined his head, tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. A shaft of light spilled onto Siri Tachi's golden hair, setting the loose wisps, the rebellious strands that refused to stay in their tightly braided place, into a glorious conflagration. The Living Force was very, very full and present here beneath the dome. Suddenly.

She slowly raised a taut-skinned melorine fruit to her lips and took a contemplative bite.

"Those fruits are off-limits," he protested, before he could stop himself.

Her ice-blue eyes narrowed, and she tilted back her head.. 'You are in no position to be _lecturing_ anyone about the rules and regulations, Kenobi," she answered, taking another bite. A drop of juice escaped and trailed down her shapely chin. She brushed it away with the back of her hand. "I see you've been demoted…. Just a little."

He thrust the shovel head into the dark, yielding pile and leaned on it, fingers tightening about the handle. The humidity was surely increasing; his lungs could not seem to get enough air.

Siri Tachi's mouth curved into a supercilious half-smile. "When the rumor got around that you were in deep poodoo with the Council, it never occurred to me to interpret the news literally," she remarked, teeth sinking into the melorine's flesh again.

Obi Wan skidded down the incline, making sure to kick a generous scattering of dung onto her boots and knees as he slid to a graceful halt before her. He folded his arms across his chest. At this distance, he could make out the faint freckling across her nose and cheeks, and smell the fruit's sweet-sour tang, like perfume. He raised a brow. "_Rumor," _ he said, disdainfully. "As you can see, I haven't _time_ to peruse shallow holomag gossip columns…. But I bow to your superior expertise in that regard."

Siri Tachi loved a good fight… but this wasn't the dojo. And the humidity seemed to have dazed her, too, for her attention was fixed on the uncivilized layer of sticky grime coating his chest and belly. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. He tried to wipe some of it off, frowning.

She gathered her wits. "I'm looking for Alepo Sator. Master Jinn said he might be in the Agri-domes…?"

He gestured to the entry. "The southwestern greenhouse," he said. "He's transferring seedlings. This is the main dome, but the auxiliaries have projects underway, too."

She bowed, and hastened away, tossing the pit of the melorine into the composter on her way out. Only when she had disappeared into the frigid world outside, en route to the smaller domes, did he think to wonder why she and Master Gallia were here on Ord Ursolon in the first place, and why she needed Alepo Sator… and whether he and Qui Gon were to be involved.

* * *

Obi Wan took the news surprisingly well. In fact, upon first hearing of the proposed arrangement, he simply nodded his understanding and retreated into the 'fresher, where he proceeded to indulge in an extraordinarily lengthy shower, leaving Qui Gon to marshall his forces in preparation for the inevitable delayed assault. His Padawan did not like to undertake a prolonged argument while _dirty; _ but that did not mean he would surrender so readily once properly scrubbed and groomed.

True to expectation, his apprentice reappeared half a standard hour later, armored in a crisp, clean tunic and wielding however many cunning arguments he had concocted during his introspective communion with the hot water supply.

"Master," he began, without preamble. "I do not think you should go without me. I have a very bad feeling about it."

Direct and to the point. Qui Gon slipped to one side, dodging the strike. "As do I, Padawan. But I have a worse feeling about you accompanying me on this mission."

Annoyed, and confident in his ability, Obi Wan parried that almost aggressively. "Why?"

"Because it poses unique dangers," Qui Gon told him, circling, warily.

"That I am not competent to handle," the Padawan finished for him, also prowling, looking for his opening.

"Perhaps." The master was patient; he would wait for the attack.

"Why do you think I'm not _capable_?" Obi Wan demanded, emotion powering the sloppy thrust.

Qui Gon sighed. "Because you asked that question." A clever, Makashi hit.

It hurt. The Padawan regrouped, pushing the injury aside, trying another tactic. "Padawan Tachi will be here to oversee the communications. She is quite competent. My presence would be superfluous."

"_You,"_ the tall man corrected him, "Are still serving your time under Alepo. This mission is not your concern. And the Council has not yet reinstated your rank, so technically you are not eligible to accompany me on such an assignment." Another hit., more brutal.

"And technicalities always take precedence over intuition, master." Sarcasm gave the boy speed and accuracy; Qui Gon had to admit he was a skilled duelist.

"Just as obedience takes precedence over puerile enthusiasm," he finished, disarming and felling his opponent with a last lightning strike.

Even defeated, Obi Wan was graceful under pressure. He sank to the floor in meditation posture, the set of his shoulders conveying eloquent contrition. "I'm sorry, master. I will do as you say. But," he risked an upward glance at Qui Gon, "It _would_ be easier if I understood why."

Dooku would have answered that with cold disapproval; how many times during his own apprenticeship had Qui Gon learned the necessity of absolute, unquestioning obedience? It was the traditional way…

"You did say that I should ask for help when needed," ObI Wan continued, apology still softening his tone. "And I need help … to obey. Understanding why would help." He dropped his gaze to his hands, which played minutely with the hem of his tunic. "With respect."

Tradition was only the dry paper shell of a festival lantern; it was the Living Force that illumined it from within. Qui Gon once again chose the essence over its time-honored vehicle. He slid down to the floor beside his Padawan.

"Master Gallia and I have been tasked with the capture of an escaped criminal," he said, quietly.

"One from the Ilixi prisonbreak," Obi Wan supplied, intuition leaping boldly ahead.

"Yes," the Jedi master sighed. "His name is Soll Carthag. I do not consider you incompetent to participate in such a chase. The Council, and I, have both decided to exclude Padawans from this particular mission because of the nature of Carthag's past deeds."

The young Jedi watched him intently, brows furrowing as revulsion echoed faintly across their bond.

"Soll Carthag is a depraved murderer," Qui Gon said, after a moment's pause. "He has been incarcerated for at least a decade now, but in his earlier years, before he was apprehended, he was infamous as a Jedi hunter."

"But how-?"

"He is Force-sensitive," Qui Gon said, bluntly. "And he has killed Padawans before. In the most… deliberate manner. It would be irresponsible for any of us to take a young apprentice into such a risky situation, when it is not strictly necessary."

He let the words sink in for a moment.

"But master, if he hates Jedi so much, then-"

"Master Gallia and I are better equipped to defend ourselves, and to overpower him. Do not underestimate a foe such as this; humility also demands that we acknowledge our own vulnerability."

Obi Wan was silent, a night of melancholic reflection already in its seminal stages. "Thank you, " he said at last, heavily. "I do understand better."

A bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of Qui Gon's mouth. "But it doesn't help after all, does it?"

Obi Wan mirrored his dark amusement. "Not really, no…. but I will do as you ask."

He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder and exerted a small encouraging pressure. "I know. Shall we meditate? And then you can retire to your sleep cot and brood in comfort, so long as you permit me to sleep."

It was a jest, though little could truly alleviate their shared mood.

But it was something."Yes, master."


	5. Chapter 5

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**5.**

* * *

Qui Gon Jinn stood behind his apprentice, hands resting gravely upon the boy's shoulders. "In my absence," the Jedi master said, "I must charge you with a solemn duty: the preservation of this creature's life."

Obi Wan tensed. "What if I kill it, master?"

"You will do no such thing. My confidence in you exceeds your own."

"That is not saying much, master."

They regarded the burgeoning extremities of the latest stray, its green protuberances like so many arms of a cephalopod. The plant was at least twice the size it had been at the time of its informal adoption as Qui Gon's ward.

"You haven't killed any of Alepo's plants," the tall man pointed out, lightly.

"Well, none but those he _wanted_ dead. But this is different. I should rather you take it with you, master. It can tend the navcomp and listen to your lectures in my stead."

"Brat. Someday you will take a Padawan of your own. If you cannot protect a simple creature like this, how will you handle the stress of raising an impertinent rapscallion?"

"My hypothetical Padawan will not have t_entacles_," Obi Wan declared, firmly.

The Jedi master clapped him on the back. "You will be brilliant. I trust you. Now, one more thing before I depart."

The young Jedi's eyes widened as his mentor unclipped one of the two 'sabers hanging at his belt.

"This weapon is your life," Qui Gon told him, soberly. He placed the gleaming hilt back in its owner's hand. "I also trust you to bear it with honor and keep it safe until I return."

Obi Wan's fingers closed about the weapon with reverence. "Yes, master."

There was a moment of silence. The Padawan stirred. "And I trust you to do the same," he offered, quietly.

The tall man's expression softened. "I give you my word…. And also some parting instructions. Since you now have this in your possession again- " he tapped the 'saber's hilt, "It would be folly to forbid you the cultivation of its art. I want that Ataru level three kata _mastered _ when I next see you."

"The Rising Wind kata?" his student clarified, not quite managing to disguise his eager anticipation.

"Yes. And I think a full fitness regimen would not be out of place. You need to make up for a month's idleness. Every morning, and every evening, starting tomorrow. You know the usual routine."

"Yes, master." One would think he was giving the boy a peerless gift. Perhaps he was; and there was also the matter of _companionship _to be addressed. An exhausted Padawan was less liable to be waylaid by certain forms of distraction.

"Between that and Alepo's work, I should think your days will be quite full."

Obi Wan spared their potted companion a dubious glance. "Quite."

Qui Gon nodded, and led the way out, to the open field where Adi's transport awaited.

Their formal good-bye was nothing more than a mutual bow and the traditional words of parting.

"May the Force be with you, master."

"And you."

A few minutes later, the ship was a dwindling speck in Ord Ursolon's ragged cloud-streaked sky, a shadow soon blotted out by the indifferent sweep of azure and white. Obi Wan watched it disappear, and then turned his steps toward the greenhouse dome and his humble agrarian duties.

* * *

"Well done, lad," Alepo Sator chuffed, mopping sweat off his own brow with one bedraggled sleeve and eyeing the crate of newly-picked beans. "That's the lot of 'em. Let's see now…. Tomorrow I'm taking you with me out to the transplantation colony. We'll seed a new hillside; the reforestation project is going well."

ObI Wan nodded. "Yes, sir."

The horticulturalist looked with evident satisfaction on the beds and orchard rows of the central Agri-dome. "Fertilizer laid, pest control set up, irrigation system installed, mulch turned, composter cleaned out, beans harvested. You've earned yourself a reprieve, I think."

The young Jedi waited, eager for his release from duty. _Saber practice._

Alepo shrugged his malformed shoulders. "You can finish off your work hours today in the kitchens, I 'spose," he declared magnanimously. "Nice break for you."

Obi Wan hoped that a deep bow would serve to conceal his utter disappointment. "Yes, I'll see what help they need," he sighed.

"No mumbo-jumbo mystical nonsense in my kitchens, either," the botanist called after him as he departed. "You hear?"

Oh, he was going to either going to be Knighted for the patience he developed on this assignment… or he was going to turn to the Dark side. The deciding factor would be whether or not he was forced to consume mandrangea beans again tonight for supper.

* * *

The kitchen supervisor regarded him as though he were a mental patient when he offered his services for the afternoon.

"Ever cook before?"

A fair question. "Ah…no, not precisely," he admitted. _Home economics_ was not included in the standard Temple curriculum. Though Galactic economics was. But that wouldn't help him excel in this strange realm.

She chuckled, hands splayed upon ample hips. "O-kaaaaay," she responded slowly, turning a thoughtful circle in the center of the bustling room. "Who needs rescuing? I gotta Jedi Knight without a job here," she called out to the boisterous staff.

One or two catcalls and at least one off-color remark were bandied about the echoing interior of the industrial kitchen. Obi Wan made to fold his hands into opposite sleeves, only to realize that he was without his robe or outer tunic.

"Don't' mind them," the supervisor grinned. "I know what you can do. Here." She led the way to a steaming tank of water and a heap of newly-harvested tubers. "You just undress these lovely ladies here… _Peel 'em., _" she explained succinctly when this first remark was met with blank incomprehension. "Like so." She dunked a fat tuber into the hot water, withdrew it, and twisted off the skin with an expert flick of the wrist. "You don't need no Force powers to do that, boy. Set to."

Reluctantly he took up his station on the nearby kitchen stool and tried his hand at the simple task, with much less impressive results.

"Practice makes perfect," the stout cook advised, wiping her hands on a stained apron and shuffling away to holler at her other staff.

Obi Wan glanced sidelong at the pile of tubers waiting his attention. He was either a long way from perfection or a fanatical overachiever, he reflected wryly. With a grumbling sigh, he devoted himself to the pursuit of culinary excellence, or humility, or a bit of both.

* * *

Against his own better judgment, Obi Wan sat across from Siri Tachi at dinner, sliding into the dingy plastoid chair and offering her a cautious nod of greeting.

After all, it would be downright rude to pointedly _ignore_ the only other Jedi Padawan in the small Agri-corps dining hall.

She surveyed him coolly and swallowed a mouthful of mandrangea bean stew. "So," she remarked. "Do you plan to make this a permanent assignment or is it merely a tour of two years, like the lay volunteers stint?"

He blinked. "Six weeks," he explained, tapping his utensil against the edge of his bowl peevishly. "I'm nearly finished."

Siri dipped a piece of bread in her own stew, frowning a little. "So _six weeks_ is what it takes to atone for outright treason."

The utensil snapped down beside his plate with a sharp crack. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, forcing his voice to remain level. He was a diplomat. A peacekeeper. He could keep the peace with another Jedi, surely.

Her eyebrows arched upward. "So you weren't actually accomplice to the escape of a dangerous prisoner, and you didn't defy Master Jinn's direct order?" Her face relaxed, a trifle. "I should have known those accusations were too outrageous to be true." There was almost a touch of apology in her eyes, a softness that hinted at a generosity beneath the hard exterior.

His hands slipped down into his lap. Focus. Calm. "No, " he answered truthfully. "…That is all accurate. From a certain point of view."

Aggravated, she shoved her own empty dishes aside and gripped the edge of the table. "I suppose you think you're a model of humility when you confess to that," she snorted. "Did you ever pause to think how your actions reflect on _others? _ You do what you want-" She leaned forward, voice dropping to a growl. "And you don't consider how that calls the dedication of _every _Padawan in the Temple into question? You dishonored _all_ of us, Kenobi. Well done."

He no longer wanted to eat. The stew cooled, an unappetizing mess of bits and thick liquid. It turned his stomach. He dragged his gaze upward to hers, and saw beneath the anger a definite hurt. Master Gallia must have, somehow, discussed this matter with her… questioned her own motives and reliability. Siri was, after all, known to have quite the hot temper herself.

"I.. I am sorry, Siri," he began, because he owed her at least that much.

"No," she cut him off. "You don't need to apologize. You need to _think. _ Because if you can't discipline yourself to stay on the Path, then you and the Order and the galaxy at large would be better served by you _staying_ here, where you can't wreak any more havoc. If you are hell-bent on failure, then at least keep the consequences on a small scale."

The apology dissolved into indignation. "I'm not a _failure, _ Siri Tachi."

She folded her arms across her chest, studying him with implacable, deadly calm. "I don't see a success, yet," she threw back at him.

He stood. Perhaps it would have been better to ignore her after all. He pivoted, and then, as an afterthought, turned back again and plucked a piece of meat from the stew, wrapping it in a napkin. Siri watched impassively, with the serenity of one who had just trounced her opponent in a sparring match.

He bowed deeply and retreated with utmost dignity, belly clenching in rage and mortification.

* * *

The thing was happy to see him.

Or so he chose to interpret the enthusiastic undulations of its tentacles upon his entrance. ObI Wan slid the door to his - their- quarters closed and approached his remaining roommate with extreme prejudice.

"Here," he told it, unwrapping the bit of leftovers and dangling the morsel above its central stalk, the prickly tube like a stunted proboscis surmounted by a disturbingly mouth-like orifice. A coil of green writhed upward and seized the offering, dropping it into this open cavity. The meat slid into a viscous goop within, and the edges of the opening slowly sealed, two rows of interlocking ridges meshing together like tiny teeth. The tentacles shuddered and relaxed, drooping over the shelf and onto the floor.

At least one of them had enjoyed his dinner.

He rolled onto his back atop the sleep cot and gazed idly at the plastoid paneling of the ceiling. He should meditate, release his anxieties into he Force. But he was not feeling like much of a Jedi at the moment. Simply being born Force-sensitive did not _make_ one a Jedi. Indeed, it could make one into a monster just as easily. Had not Qui Gon said that Soll Carthag was such an individual? He rolled on his side and tucked one arm beneath his head. Siri Tachi had a point : if he could not discipline himself, then the galaxy would be better off with him safely relegated to obscurity. Perhaps he was, in some awful way, precisely where he belonged. Perhaps _that_ was why Qui Gon and the Council had seen fit to send him here to the Agri-Corps: so that he might realize this for himself and choose it willingly, without the additional pain of being forcibly ejected from the Temple.

He curled in on himself a bit. A green tendril drifted in his direction and traced a loving curve around his ear. He batted it away viciously, but another two or three made similar egress, tickling at his nose and throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and ignored their attentions.

Negative thoughts were a product of imbalance, either of fear or attachment or both. He exhaled slowly, banishing the entire line of speculation into the Force's soothing currents. The tight knot beneath his ribs loosened a little, and his limbs relaxed. Eventually, the plant's curious examination of his person ceased too.

He drew in one more deep centering breath, and was instantly asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**6.**

* * *

The roof of the small, southernmost greenhouse was lit with pink and orange striations, a dawn aurora. Beneath the grubby plasteel dome, it was warm. Seedlings nestled in their hydopods along the perimeter of the small space; moss grew in the cracked pavers covering its central expanse. Obi Wan exulted in the heft and feel of his saber, the pure tone of its blade, the easy, joyful pounding of his blood in his veins as he drove through the advanced kata in a whirl of blue light, noting the still to be adjusted imperfections, smiling a bit as he twisted through the air, the blade singing about him, baring his teeth in feral satisfaction as he landed, cutting the warm air with deadly precision. The Force surged and flowed; the tiny plants seemed to watch in quiet approval; the day's first light gradually strengthened, even as he felt strength and skill returning to him after long hiatus, the Force blossoming, like a forgotten sun over a lonely horizon, a subtle daybreak within his every cell.

He closed his eyes and breathed it in, let it breathe him in, heart beating against his ribs with a bright martial ferocity, with perfect mantra-like calm.

It was good. All was well. The Living Force was full of light and peace.

The door opened, its pressure valves squeaking in unwelcome dissonance.

And there was Siri Tachi, come to disrupt his serenity and bliss. "Oh…," she stammered, upon seeing him standing in the center of the warm space. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I just thought this would be a fine place to practice."

Her 'saber was clipped at her belt, just visible beneath the heavy folds of Jedi robe. Her cheeks were bright pink, scoured by the stinging cold outside. "It _is_ a good place," he answered, crisply. "Though, lamentably, too small to accommodate two." He hoped that she would sense just how un-lamentable this was.

Siri was not easily intimidated. She tucked herself against the side wall, near one of the hydro-pod racks. "I'll wait," she decided.

Stymied, he raised his brows. She was going to _watch?_ To refuse would be to back down. He turned in the opposite direction and centered himself. She had seen him work with a saber before; it wasn't as though this was a blasted freak show in the Corsuscanti circus. Shrugging, he set to work again, starting the Rising Wind kata from the beginning. And this time it was perfect; his distraction serving to unseat his focus from self-concern, leaving him entirely empty, receptive to the Force. He wasn't thinking about his form, and so his execution was flawless, power and grace wedded together, speed and control melded into gorgeous precision, saber and body one thing, one blazing expression of light. He finished in a deep lunge, blade parallel to the floor, exhaling with soft reverence. _Force!_ How he had missed this.

And then he remembered his audience. He straightened, snapped the blade back into its hilt, clipped the weapon at his side.

"That was beautiful," Siri said, in a stunned voice.

His chest tightened. "Don't. You can have it now… I'm finished." He made for the doors, calling his discarded tunics to himself from the far corner. They flew into his outstretched hand.

"Wait," she protested. " Perhaps you could teach me."

Incredulous, he hesitated. Was that an _apology?_ If so, it wasn't a very compelling one. He smoothed his features and glanced at her over one shoulder. "I would by no means corrupt your inviolable perfection, Padawan Tachi," he shot back. "May the Force be with you." And he was out the doors, tugging the duster over his head as he plunged back into the frigid dawn. Frost crunched beneath his boots as he stormed toward the main dome, where Alepo would doubtless be waiting.

Teach her? She could kiss his treacherous, defiant, dishonorable, hellbent-on-failure, sword-masterly, beautiful arse.

He smirked a little and jogged faster along the gravel path to the central greenhouse.

* * *

The Illixi prison warden was not impressed.

"A little late, aren't you? The _kanrri_'s flown the coop already," the portly Devaronian snorted, escorting the two Jedi masters down the central aisle of the high security wing. To left and right, empty cells stared at them, eye sockets gaping in the aftermath of injury. The energy containment doors had been shorted out. Open doorways gaped wide, revealing tiny smooth-walled chambers beyond.

Adi lifted her chin. "Show us where Carthag was housed," she ordered.

The warden eyed her gleaming saber hilt and decided to comply. "Here," he grunted, stabbing a finger at the last cell on the right. "Extra precautions for him. We had him in an electro-collar, too, and under surveillance." The blasted remains of a compact camdroid lay abandoned in one corner of the cramped space.

Qui Gon entered the tiny space, brushing fingers against the wall. "Carthag is possessed of rare insight and skill," he pointed out. "Even your best security practices would not contain him, once he had cultivated the proper allies."

The warden rocked back on his heels, mouth thinning. "_I_ was against keeping a Force-sensitive here in the first place," he spat out. "Damn Senate bleeding-hearts overturned the Judiciary's recommendation for experimental suppression techniques."

Adi joined Qui Gon inside the tiny room. "You cannot subject prisoners to _experimental_ cruelty," she declared, in her low and sonorous voice.

"I would think," the Devoronian snorted, "That you Jedi would have been in favor, considering what he did to some of your own. I was just re-reading the trial transcripts last night." He whistled, expressively. "Nasty son of a vetch. Pervert."

"We do not embrace revenge," the Tholothian Jedi told him, severely. She closed her eyes, ignoring the warden's dismissive stare. "And depriving a Force-user of his gift is slow mutilation. I would call that _perverse_ sadism."

"Your opinion, master Jedi. But now we got a runaway on our hands, and how the hells are we gonna contain him _this_ time? You ever think about that?"

Qui Gon skewered him with a harsh look and closed his eyes as well.

After a moment, the warden made a disgusted sound deep in his throat and shuffled away down the echoing corridor, boots clacking against the polished tile.

After a long period of silence in which the two Jedi stood, unmoving within the confines of Carthag's long-time home, Adi stirred. "He had an accomplice outside the prison," she said softly.

"I sense it too," Qui Gon agreed. "Expectation. Confidence. And concern for timing. Presumably, he had a prearranged rendezvous, most likely within the system. It would be paramount to rid himself of the stolen prison vehicle as quickly as possible."

"That narrows our search. But the local security forces have made no progress in tracking down the ship."

Qui Gon turned in a slow circle, surveying the smooth, unyielding stretch of reinforced durasteel. "We'll try the moon of Yarbel," he decided. "The spaceport there is a hub for non-incorporated passenger lines and Hutt controlled trade. He would know that a major spaceport would be subject to thorough search."

Adi agreed, silently. They stood another moment in the cold cell. "This was the wrong place to keep him, " she decided, heavily.

Her companion nodded gravely. "The Judiciary made what it felt was a prudent choice. But… this would drive any of us to madness. I can feel the Dark here."

"As can I. If Carthag has worsened, he may sacrifice his cover in favor of another killing spree. Force forbid that he harms innocents before we catch him."

Qui Gon could not have agreed more heartily.

* * *

Alepo Sator was not a cautious pilot, even by Jedi standards. He pushed the Agri-Corps tractor-trailer along the frostbitten landscape at a speed far in excess of safety limits; the repulsors whined and groaned as the heavy cargo boxes fixed behind the engine cab rattled and bumped over swells in the earth and uneven surfaces. The cab itself rumbled in dismay, since the botanist had insisted on exceeding the weight limit, insisting grouchily that he was only making one trip out to the reforestation site and the obstreperous machinery would simply have to _deal with it._

In the passenger seat, Obi Wan made a conscious effort to follow this advice himself, deliberately unclenching his hands and releasing his anxieties into the Force. If they crashed, he would be better able to marshal its power to save himself from flying through the fragmented viewsheild if he were _relaxed._

Am I making you nervous, lad?" Alepo chuckled, with a knowing twist of the mouth.

"No, sir." The _speed_ was making him nervous, and the fact that he was not in control of this hurtling bucket of rusted bolts.

"You're killing me!" the horticultural expert snorted. "Don't you Jedi fly starships all over the place? Hm? And Master Jinn told me about that time you jumped off a three hundred meter high docking platform."

Obi Wan kept his focus on the far horizon. So Qui Gon had been swapping amusing tales with Alepo Sator, had he? It would appear his mentor suffered from early-onset senility. "Master was the one who jumped," he peevishly corrected the man. "I was _pushed._ By him. It was his idea of a special life-day gift."

This only earned him another round of wheezing laughter. "Builds character," Alepo chortled.

_Builds acrophobia,_ the young Jedi amended mentally. He swatted away an insidious green tendril - one tugging coyly at the collar of his tunic.

Alepo Sator glanced sideways at the cab's third occupant, wedged firmly between the two seats. "You sure about that thing?' he asked, for the tenth time. "I thought you had taken a hankering to it."

"Master Jinn charged me with the preservation of its life," Obi Wan explained dryly. "And believe me, if I have to spend another night in its company, I can make no guarantees of its safety."

The botanist shrugged. "Suit yourself. There's plenty of room out on the ecopreserve. Just make sure it's settled near the established forest. More critters for it to eat, and the root system won't interfere with the newer seedlings."

"I'll make sure it's happy," the Padawan promised. "I think it's big enough to move out on its own."

"That takes longer'n you would think," the botanist advised him. "Fr'instance, how many standard years is your typical Jedi apprenticeship?"

"Oh…ah, ten. Sometimes more. Sometimes less."

The tractor skipped and rattled as they hit a stretch of uneven shale at the foothills' edge. Alepo cursed, adjusted the repulsors, and barreled forward up the jagged incline. Their convoy of cargo palettes banged and groaned behind them. Qui Gon's adoptee writhed its tentacles in distress, seizing Obi Wan's left wrist in a crushing precautionary grip. He yanked himself free.

"When are you goin' to move out on your own, then?" the botanist inquired, conversationally.

At eighteen? Nineteen? For the sake of _humility,_ he widened that estimate. "When I'm twenty," he guessed.

Alepo Sator snorted disdainfully. "Twenty five and not a day before," he chuffed. "Believe me, lad."

The Padawan crossed his arms over his chest and busied himself studying the landscape. What did Alepo understand about the Jedi path, anyhow? On the other hand, this talk of leaving Qui Gon Jinn's tutelage left him with a distinctly bad feeling. He reached into the unifying Force, seeking for a glimpse of what that would _mean, _of how that…friendship? Dare he so name it? – would _feel…_ but the shifting veils of the future did not part, nor even skim diaphanously over obscure forms. His premonition failed him, and he was left bemused, and annoyed. The cab bumped and lurched ever upward, ascending into the high reaches of the hills, where the restoration of Ord Ursolon's forests was well underway.

He swatted a creeping tendril away from his thigh, and braced himself against the console as Alepo brought their vehicle to a sudden, emphatic halt.

"Here we are," the horiculturalist grunted. "Enough chatter -time to get to work."


	7. Chapter 7

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**7.**

* * *

"If you can spare me, I should like to find a new home for our friend," Obi Wan said, tamping down the earth around the last of the seedlings.

Alepo Sator rested his soil-begrimed hands upon his hips, surveying the expanse of freshly planted hillside. "Fine," he agreed. "I've got to catalogue this area for the geosurvey and set up the security sensors. You've got half a standard."

"Thank you, sir."

The thing seemed to know what he was about; no sooner had he lifted it from the protective shelter of the hovertractor's cab, grunting as he heaved its massive form into his arms, than it proceeded to wrap several extremities about his neck and shoulders, as though unwilling to let him go.

"Attachment is… _forbidden,"_ he gasped, toting the enormous wriggling creature to the edge of the preserve. Here, taller trees planted in earlier seasons raised their green boughs to the clear sky. His breath came in puffs of white cloud; though there was no snow here on the hills, the temperature was still bitter.

He managed to extricate himself and dig a deep hole in the earth, turning over the soil several times as Alepo had instructed him. He crumbled some potent vitamin additives into the ground, and then turned his attention back to his acquaintance. It required a veritable wrestling match to upend the thing's pot and extract the rootball. Once he had subdued his opponent, he had to drag it, kicking and figuratively screaming, to its new – and hopefully permanent – location. In it went; and if it pulled his hair and threw chunks of sod at his face as he secured it in place, carefully tamping down the dirt on every side of its central stalk, he chose to endure the onslaught with patience.

Even when he was finished, and had stepped back to admire his handiwork, the plant still expressed its displeasure by thrusting angry tendrils in every direction, a chorus of condemnatory gesticulation.

"This is where you belong," he informed it, tugging his rumpled tunics back into place. "Though if Qui Gon had his way, you would be enrolled as an initiate at the Temple." It was an amusing image; and he indulged in a small smile. This was one stray they would _leave behind._ "Don't die on me, though," he warned it, by way of parting.

The sun was quickly descending, the far horizon already deepening to purple, and the temperature uncomfortably low. He pulled the duster closer about his shoulders and tramped away to the newly seeded section, 'saber slapping against his leg as he hurried down the slope.

"Done?" the horticulturalist asked, when he reappeared. "Good. The ride home should be faster – no weight to slow us down."

Obi Wan grimaced as he climbed into the cab… and then sucked in a sharp breath. The Force flared with strident warning.

"What the blazing chizzsk!" Alepo exclaimed, pointing skyward.

The evening sky was marred by a dark speck trailing a gash of smoke and flame, a howling projectile streaking downward at an alarming angle, setting the Force into an awful cacophony of alarm. Obi Wan gritted his teeth, feeling the panic of at least a hundred sentients warp the plenum, even at this distance. "It's a crash," he said, leaping back down to the hard earth, screening his eyes with one hand.

The plummeting spacecraft's hull glinted against the dying sun.

"Passenger liner," Alepo hissed, scrambling back into the cab. "I'll call the spaceport to send an emergency team – get the Corps up here, too – there might be survivors –"

Obi Wan cried out when the massive ship hit the first hilltop and tumbled down a jagged slope, trailing fire and a confetti spray of shielding and metal scraps. The Force was rent asunder with the violence of its impact, with screams and cries. But the angle of impact hadn't been too bad… the ship was still sliding, cutting a swath through Alepo's restored forest, screeching to a slow stop amid a hurricane of dust and reeking columns of smoke. There was pain and screaming and panic, rising in a black tide…. There must be _many_ survivors.

He did not wait for further prompting; instead, he ran.

* * *

The moon of Yarbel was a seedy den of moral flotsam, at best. At worst, it was a cesspool where the worst filth in the galaxy festered in undisturbed repose.

Adi and Qui Gon raised hoods well over their faces and wandered through the milling concourse of the main spaceport.

"He would have landed nearby and destroyed his original escape vehicle," Adi murmured, as they jostled their way through a crowd of disreputable commuters and shady businessmen. "No doubt his accomplice had pre-arranged transport from this point."

Qui Gon nodded, his senses unfurled into the Force, seeking for an echo of their quarry's presence. As a Force user, especially a mentally unstable one, Carthag would leave a peculiar trace in the Force… although here, where scum and villainy oozed and puddled in every nook and cranny, the subtle currents were universally disturbed, tainted with ubiquitous greed and low-grade malice. "This may prove difficult," he sighed. What they needed was a Jedi skilled in telemetry… but such gifts were extremely rare, and time was short.

They hesitated outside the last terminal. "He was here," Adi declared, suddenly. "I can feel it."

She was right; there was a shuddering disturbance in the Living Force, the signature left by some fetid presence. It was dim, and indistinct, a mere sour aftertaste in their minds, a staleness felt as a lingering ripple in the universal energy. "And _here_ is Virmma the Hutt's private docking hangar," Qui Gon observed.

They shouldered past the Whiphid security guards, pressing against the simpletons' minds with the power of the Force. Inside the hangar, a large freighter sat on landing prongs, its cargo slowly unloaded by a troupe of boxy droids designed for such endless drudgery. The ships' captain stood nearby, a long Corellian cheroot between his wide lips.

"Jedi," he grunted when the pair of dark-robed figures approached him. "I didn't do it."

"We know you didn't do it," Adi told him. "But unless you can help us find the one who did, we'll have to search your ship."

The man exhaled a pink cloud in one long stream. "You'll never get clearance for that," he sniffed, contemptuously.

"I didn't say it would be an authorized search," Adi retorted.

The captain shifted. "Look, I didn't do it."

Qui Gon lowered his hood and closed the space between them, causally. The ship's captain stepped back a pace. "Some illegal goods were shipped out of this spaceport two days ago," he informed the man placidly.

"What else is new?" the fellow snorted, taking another drag.

"These were very _unique_ goods," the Jedi master continued, moving closer again.

The captain's mouth thinned in displeasure. He let the next stream of rosy-hued smoke out through his nostrils, giving him the appearance of a Chandrilan incense burner. "I wasn't here two days ago."

"But you can tell us who was. Which ship departed from this hangar ? You must know which of your colleagues was scheduled to make a run here. You all work for the same piece of slime," Adi pointed out.

The unfortunate captain held up his hands. "All right, all right. The _Privateer._ Dropped off a shipment here, went back to Virmma's place. The usual run, and Klepp To don't know when to keep his hands in his own pockets, you know what I mean? I'm not involved in smuggling."

"And where is he now?" Adi inquired in a low growl.

"I told ya, I don't know! Proabably drunk off his gourd in some watering hole on Shagra. That's how he spends his downtime. Or I can give you the name of his mistress on Beliflor. Just lemme be."

Adi pressed her lips together, assesingly.

Qui Gon waved one hand before the man's face. "We weren't here," he said softly.

"You weren't here…" the captain muttered, raising the cheroot to his lips again and seeming to look through them , as though they were invisible.

The two Jedi withdrew a cautious distance. "Shagra or this Klepp To character?" Adi asked. "Or shall we split up and track down both leads?"

Qui Gon tilted his head to one side. "In this circumstance, I do not think we should divide our resources." When the Tholothian nodded her reluctant agreement, he added, "Carthag will need funds. Equipment. My instincts tell me that the _Privateer_ was simply a pre-arranged transport – he must have planned to use Virmma's connections to obtain much-needed credits."

"He might have taken a bounty contract," Adi supplied. "Or Virmma may owe him a favor. In either case, he would need the Hutt's recommendation to integrate into the underworld with any facility."

Qui Gon's hand gripped his saber's hilt. "I think we should speak with Virmma personally," he decided. "And possibly one of his underlings can be convinced to provide more information."

They strode back through the crowded concourse, heading for their own transport. Shagra was in Hutt controlled space, outside Republic jurisdiction; it was also possible that Carthag was holed up in the Hutt's protection. A pitched confrontation in such hostile territory did not appeal to either of them, but they were equally well aware that the only kind of negotiations in which the escaped convict would particpate would be the _aggressive_ variety.

"This should be pleasant," Adi remarked as they ascended the lightweight shuttle's ramp.

* * *

Obi Wan pelted toward the disaster site , leaping over obstacles and sprinting flat out among the trees, the Force carrying him forward on a crest of urgency. He cast an arm over his face as he drew near; the intense heat and the stinking smoke issuing from the mangled hull were a double edged assault on his senses. . His saber sprang into life, and he plunged forward, holding his breath. Toxic clouds shrouded him, clung to his clothes and hair. The hull was superheated from its descent; the metal seemed to ripple in the shuddering air. He thrust the blue blade through the nearest bit of metal, and carved a circle. The insulation dripped, molten, about his boots; the makeshift hatchway fell to the earth.

He leapt inside. Screams, shouts, a jumble of bodies, sparking panels, and everywhere toxic smoke. His saber was a beacon. "This way!" he shouted, choking in the next instant. His boots hit a body; he grabbed the inert form and half-threw it out the opening. In an instant, the panicked crowd followed, trampling one another in their haste to escape. There were children; Obi Wan pressed further inside the passenger hold, stepping on bodies, seeking for the living. He pushed, shoved, thrust people into the central aisle, herded them along its length. One or two were unconscious; he carried them out. The press thinned; the Force tightened into a shrill wail of imminent danger. He dashed back along the tilted corridor, toward the cockpit, wrenching the doors open with a wave of his hand.

Inside, poison seeped in thick pillows of vapor. The pilots were dead. He reeled, hands and boots slipping in gore, stomach heaving. Something exploded behind him, cutting off escape. The Force drove him forward, guided his hand. He slashed two long lines into the viewport, and hurled his will against it, smashing through the shatterproof transparisteel with a strangled shout, leaping through the jagged opening just as the vessel went up in a bright inferno, spitting harsh chemicals and spinning shards sky high, shaking the earth beneath their feet.

He rolled, and rolled, and then ran, choking and gasping. The crowd was well ahead of him, safe in the cover of the trees, their distress a dizzying lurch in the Force. Sirens and the thrum of hovercraft punctuated their wails and cries: the emergency team, responding in record time.

He stumbled and fell to the ground, head throbbing, his throat and chest burning. He had inhaled a good deal of the poisonous smoke. He coughed, and vomited, and then coughed again, clutching at his chest, eyes streaming. A second explosion rocked the evening air; burning debris fell like fireworks. He pressed his face into the soft earth and groaned.

And people screamed and cried and wept on every side.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**8**

* * *

"Fine. Die of asphyxiation. I'll be sure to mention your bravery in the mission report."

Obi Wan squinted through blearing eyes, still wheezing for breath that came only in tight, shuddering gasps. His head _hurt,_ stars above…

Siri Tachi was kneeling beside him, one arm clamped about his back, beneath his shoulders. He coughed, and coughed, doubling over, the world wavering into mottled darkness. He could smell the toxic vapors still, their acrid stench, their burning tang in his lungs. Siri was talking rapidly to somebody else, and then her hands were pushing him upright again, not quite gently.

"Inhale, Kenobi. Stop being an idiot chosski."

She pressed a breathing mask – a standard issue emergency response model – against his face. He tried to wave it away, but Siri had him more or less in a headlock by that time, and the blurring, darkening world was slipping in and out of his grasp, as his senses teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

So he breathed, and felt a certain cooling relief, and felt Siri Tachi keeping a firm hold about his shoulders, and felt the stirrings of toxic shock set his muscles to trembling. His seizing airway opened a trifle, and each indrawn gasp of oxygen-rich, medicated whatever-it-was brought new relief and redoubled grogginess. He slumped forward, wishing that Siri would simply go away and let him be… but of course, she would not.

Alepo Sator appeared briefly, his harsh voice softened by concern. "He's a good lad, that one. Have the boys load him up with the other injured. We'll head back to headquarters – we can use domes three and four as refugee shelters. Ord Fromag will have to send another medical team and a transport out here- we'll send a transmission when we get back. You need help?"

Siri Tachi's voice made some quiet answer, and Alepo's presence faded. Boots tramped and shuffled all around them; voices groaned and murmured, and there was the hum of many repulsor vehicles. The stench of smoking plastoid and metal filled the air, an ambient menace. He coughed again, chest aching. He could not open his eyes.

"They're all safe," Siri told him, squeezing his hand. "You saved so many people."

And with that knowledge came blissful relief. He returned the gentle pressure about his fingers, and let go, spinning away into lovely, drug-stupefied oblivion.

* * *

Virmma the Hutt was annoyed by the interruption. He waved a pudgy hand, dismissing the three scantily attired Twi'Lek slave girls who had been massaging his corpulent folds and bulges. His protocol model translator creaked forward to perform its duty.

"The illustrious Virmma inquires how he may be of service."

Qui Gon Jinn's mouth quirked at the corners. _His_ Huttese was fluent enough to enable him to perceive the significant gap between the droid's polite greeting and the grunting vulgarities actually muttered by their host.

Adi Gallia's eyes narrowed, sensing the same thing. "We are looking for an associate of yours, whom we believe was transported here aboard the _Privateer_ one or two planetary rotations ago."

The huge slug heaved his weight forward an inch and gurgled his reply to the silver droid.

"There are a great number of ships and subcontractors arriving on site each day," the translator smoothly glossed. "Virmma will require more specific details."

Qui Gon withdrew his compact holoprojector and cast a small rotating image of Soll Carthag above the plate. The transparent blue figure turned slowly in midair. The Hutt's eyes narrowed, and he burped out another obscenity or two.

"I am sorry, but this individual is not welcome in Virmma's vicinity any longer. He has not been seen in ten standard years, and we have no desire to do business with him. The great Virmma also suggests that you make inquiries in the Illixi sector Republic high security penitentiary."

Adi shifted her stance. "As Virmma undoubtedly _already knows,"_ the Tholothian Jedi master replied, sharply, "Carthag has escaped from prison and is on the run. We assumed he would seek refuge with a former employer."

Virmma lost his temper at this implication. He waved a fist in the air and ran his purple tongue over lipless jaws, sending a small trail of ooze dribbling down his many chins.

The droid wrung its hands and sought for an appropriate euphemism, but apparently its processors were not entirely up to scratch. "Oh dear," it mumbled, "Oh dear. The most respectable Virmma suggests that you Jedi, ah, -"

The Hutt bellowed with laughter and spelled out his instructions in halting Basic, replete with the commonly recognized hand gesture.

Qui Gon bowed curtly. "Some other time."

When they had been escorted, to the accompaniment of snickers and hooting, all the way the Virmma's palatial front gates, he turned to Adi. "He's not here. I sensed no deception in our Hutt friend, or his associates."

"No," she agreed. "Perhaps we should hunt down this freighter pilot instead. He's sure to be here somewhere, drowning his woes." She flipped her dark robe's hood over her face, and led the way toward Shagra Sedd's outlying slums.

* * *

Obi Wan groaned and shoved the thermal blanket off with a muffled curse.

He was back in his dingy quarters at the Ag-Corps base, quite alone, and aching head to toe. He sat up gingerly, noting that his head still spun a little with the sudden motion, and surveyed the blank walls of the room. No Qui Gon; no tentacled voyeur. Privacy was a rare privilege in his life, and he savored it. Then it occurred to him that he had not got here on his own, and that somebody had kindly cleaned him up and tucked him in.

He hoped to the nine unholy Sith-hells that it had been Alepo or one of the staff, _not_ Siri Tachi.

Speaking of whom…. He reached into the Force, sensing the bustle of quiet, purposeful activity throughout the compound. Not just the everyday routine of growing and tending crops, either – there were a great many sentients present, and much fuss and bother being made over them. Running a hand through his hair until it stood upright in long spikes, his sluggish mind ground into gear and put the pieces together. Alepo Sator must have set up a refugee camp for the crash victims here, possibly in one of the Agri-domes. Ord Orsolon had no major medcenter, and only one spaceport. The director would send for help from the nearest Republic outpost… Ord Fromag, maybe. In the meanwhile, the injured passengers of the passenger liner would need food, shelter, medical care, and reassurance.

He knew what duty required of him as a Jedi. He fumbled into his clothing and out the door, making a straight line for the greenhouse domes, where he could feel the buzz and swell of sentient life centered like a busy hive of _bezzils._ There was an alluring scent of food in the air, and he guessed from the pale light and the dull rumbling of his own stomach that it was again morning, the start of a new day and a new task.

Dome three had been transformed into an impromptu dining hall. Staff members and some of the rescued passengers were seated at improvised tables, nothing more than overturned storage crates, chattering and milling about as the Agri-Corps kitchen staff hurried to serve hot dishes undoubtedly concocted from mandrangea beans. Others trickled in and out of the dome's wide doors, a disorderly line wending its way toward dome four.

He set aside his appetite and followed this steady streamlet to its source. Dome four was larger, and beneath its broad curving roof were rows and rows of cots and sleeping mats, pieces of spare furniture and even shipping palettes put to imaginative use. Any scrap of fabric or cloth that could be salvaged had been re-purposed as a blanket – though the dome's inherent thermal properties kept the temperature inside pleasantly warm. Alepo Sator and some of his people were present here, speaking to their guests; and directly across from the entrance, kneeling by the side of a distraught mother clutching a pair of howling twins, was Siri Tachi.

He picked his way through the disorderly labyrinth of sleeping arrangements. Alepo intercepted him in the open central area.

"There you are, lad. Feeling better?'

Obi Wan bowed. "Much improved. How can I be of assistance?" He gazed round the noisy enclave, bracing himself. Gardening, cooking, and now… his heart sank… childcare. But a Jedi did not shirk unpleasant duties.

The horticulturalist patted his arm lightly. "You've helped enough already. Without you, most these folks would be dead. And we wouldn't be in this predicament. But it should be short-lived - Ord Fromag is sending help and an evacuation transport as soon as possible. We just need to withstand siege for a day or so."

"That's good news," the young Jedi smiled. At least he had accomplished _something_ meaningful during his tour of duty here.

"I'll need your help in the main dome later, though, " the botanist warned him. "With everyone involved here, we're short handed. And I've got one or two chores that can't wait. Why don't you eat and let these people thank you, then meet me at meridian?"

The Padawan frowned. "I'll eat… but there's no need to make a fuss – I do not think –"

Alepo poked a finger into his chest. "You let 'em thank you, 'cause _they_ want to. You don't get to skulk in a corner 'casue you're too modest to care. Closure. You save the day, you need to follow through."

He sighed. "Very well."

Alepo winked and strode away in the direction of the exit.

An infant's ear-splitting shriek drew his attention back to the family huddled at the dome's far end.

"Kenobi!" Siri Tachi called, impatient. "Would you help me here, for a moment?"

He stepped forward, only to have a squalling baby thrust unceremoniously into his arms by an exasperated Siri. "Here – hold her. I'm not the maternal type," she snarled.

"And I _am?"_ he objected, shifting the squirming bundle against his chest and watching the young mother try to soothe this child's inconsolable twin.

"They're _ill," _ Siri snapped at him. "Just go… walk around or something, so I can get this other one to sleep." She turned her back on him and addressed her attention to the ailing child.

Vexed by her imperious tone, he strolled away, muttering something uncomplimentary under his breath. The baby girl hiccupped and wailed her hearty agreement.

"Yes, I know, but there's nothing we can do to help," he assured the fussing infant. "Padawan Tachi is not a diplomat, by birth or by training. We must abide her presence with patience and humility and –"

The child vomited a goodly quantity of sticky white glop over his front.

"And forbearance," he finished, wryly. "Thank you for that lesson, my master. But you cannot intimidate me with your threats. I have endured far worse companionship than yours."

The baby quieted, watching the panoply of light and shadow play against the dome's grimy roof. She raised a fist toward the mesmerizing spectacle, and he instinctively shifted her onto her back, so she might have a better view. They walked and walked, about the dome's perimeter, one lost in contemplation of the ceiling, the other lost in contemplation of the Force, until the child had fallen into a deep slumber in the crook of his arm and he came up with a start against the form of a short, middle aged humanoid with grizzled hair and a jolly, laughter-lined face.

"Oh ho! Your pardon," this jovial personage smiled. His eyes crinkled in surprise as they lighted upon the 'saber hilt at Obi Wan's hip. "Another Jedi!" he exclaimed. "It's a regular infestation. You are, I presume, the one to whom we all owe our lives."

Recalling Alepo Sator's words, the Padawan bowed. "We come to serve. It was only my duty." The baby stirred restlessly, and he adjusted her weight.

The amicable fellow beamed at him. "Well, I am glad to see you in one piece, and glad to be in the same condition myself. I hope you will accept my heartfelt gratitude."

"Ah… yes. Thank you. It was my honor." How _did_ one accept such praise? He would have to ask Qui Gon about this later. Public – or private- accolades made him distinctly uncomfortable.

His new acquaintance offered a bright, engaging smile. "I've embarrassed you," he said, perceptively. "Never mind me. Perhaps we shall have the pleasure of speaking again … my friends and family call me Choollo. You?"

"Obi Wan Kenobi." He omitted his title; after all, he technically didn't have rights to it.

Choollo winked and ambled away, hands folded behind his back. Obi Wan shrugged and continued his slow circuit of the dome, the baby girl snoring peacefully in his arms.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**9**

* * *

Klepp To was slumped over the greasy bartop of the _Brainsucker_, one of a dozen disreputable cantinas lining Shagra Sedd's lower streets.

Adi Gallia perched upon the stool next to him, and the red-eyed freighter pilot squinted up at her hopefully. "Getyoushomething, beautiful?" he slurred.

"She's with me," Qui Gon informed him, taking up residence on the pilot's other side. Another patron appeared to have fallen into a stupor upon the floor beneath his plastoid stool, but the seat was, for the moment, unoccupied.

Klepp To found it difficult to focus on the Jedi master properly. He pointed a wavering finger at the tall man's face. "You – long-haired pillock – get a job and take a bath."

"You would like to buy _me_ a drink," Qui Gon retorted calmly, making a subtle gesture.

The inebriated pilot promptly hailed the many-armed barkeeper and ordered a round of his usual. Three fluted glasses of vile green liquid were slammed onto the counter in front of them. Adi looked at hers with apparent disdain; Klepp To downed his in one go, and Qui Gon took a cautious sip.

"What…uh, to what do I owe this pleshure?"

Adi leaned forward. "You are the captain of the _Privateer,"_ she said quietly.

"Tha'sh right. Best little smuggle-bunny in the Rims," To leered.

"I'm sure." The Tholothian Jedi was unimpressed. "You had an extra passenger on your last trip. Where is he now?"

The pilot blinked, in obvious stupefaction. "No passenger. He washn't there."

The two Jedi exchanged a meaningful glance.

"Soll Carthag was on board your ship," Qui Gon pushed. "Where is he now?" The Force pressed in against To's besotted mind, making the pilot squirm in his seat.

"No! He was never there! No passenger! We never stopped at Karnas!" Klepp To whimpered, clutching at his head.

Adi nodded grimly.

"We were never here, either," Qui Gon told their interlocutor, who groaned and promptly collapsed forward onto the bartop, his face smashed against the polished duraplast. Wet snores drifted upward.

"You overdid it," Adi frowned.

"Hey! You gonna pick up his tab, or what?" the bartender hollered at them as they made to depart.

Grimacing, Qui Gon tossed a sizeable credit chit in the fellow's general direction and swept out the door on Adi's heels.

Pedestrians swelled the walkways of Shagra Sedd with a jumble of life. "So, Carthag did board his vessel, and convinced him to stop at Karnas before using mind-influence to eradicate To's memory of the event," Adi stated. "Karnas is an unlikely detour."

Qui Gon watched the crowds ebb and flow, reaching into the Living Force. "He must have been meeting his accomplice there," he decided. "We should follow in his footsteps."

They stepped over the inert forms of one or two gutter-dwellers, and made their way back to their waiting transport.

* * *

Every spare centimeter of the extensive Agri-Corps headquarters on Ord Ursolon had been overrun by the evacuees – as was right and good. Even the housing unit had been appropriated as a makeshift hospital in the course of the long day, and Obi Wan had naturally volunteered his small assigned room as part of this relief effort. He tossed his satchel of belongings into a corner of the refugee area and sought out a place to meditate in peace. Alepo had kept him hard at work until nearly sunset; and the line for dinner – mandrangea bean patties, a stunning novelty – had taken nearly an hour to navigate.

His nerves were frayed and he dearly craved the release which only the Force could provide.

The comm. center was empty. With a sigh, he knelt in the middle of the dark room, the satellite and short-burst transmittor equiment blinking steadily in the gloom. There was a faint hum beneath the floor- distracting, but no worse than the everpresent thrumming of drives on a spacecraft. He closed his eyes and sought for his center.

The Force was very disturbed here, as one would expect. With so many injured, disoriented, frightened, and anxious sentients cooped up in one place, it was nearly impossible to sort out the tangled threads of unrest and dark emotion. He waded through the knotty mess, the confusing mélange of feeling and imagination, breathing slowly and deeply, letting his focus find its own path. He harbored anxiety, too – unreleased, pent up fragments, the backlash from his actions aboard the crashed ship. He recognized them, named them, released them. The Force swelled gently, washing them away.

Fear. Choking gas and raging heat, the threat of imminent explosion. He let it go. It was in the past. Sorrow. There had been bodies left on board, those who had perished in the crash, There was nothing to be done for them, now or ever. He let it go. Another deep breath. Anger. Why had it happened at all? There was sometimes no answer. Anger was a path to the Dark side. There was always a _reason, _ though perhaps it would forever be hidden in the Force's mysterious depths. He let the anger go, too. Something else… he steadied himself, sought deeper. Oh. Yes. The cockpit. Horror… horror and revulsion. He balked, even within the serenity of his meditation, even with the Force kindling in his breath and blood, intimate and close. Release. But to release, one must first _accept. _

_The pilots were dead. He reeled, hands and boots slipping in gore, stomach heaving._

Accept. It had happened; he had seen it. Deep breath, the Force trembling in its core, a vital flame consuming the dregs of instinctual distress. He looked, and saw, and accepted that this was part of his experience. And then he let it go, exhaling with an almost audible relief. In the wake of horror, there was a swell of bright, analytical clarity. Those men had not been killed in the crash. Their bodies had been free of the harnesses, sprawled upon the decks. The cockpit itself had not been crushed, nor the viewport shattered by the impact. Their injuries, the manner of their death, had been…. _Murder_.

His vague disquiet solidified into a cold point of certainty.

"Are you all right?"

He opened his eyes. For _stars' sake!_ Siri Tachi was more invasive than any of the weeds he had uprooted in Alepo's greenhouses, or even the tentacled thing Qui Gon had adopted. Was there no place in the galaxy a man might find some privacy?

His thoughts must have carried across the taut Force, for she arched one brow sardonically. "I'm sorry to interrupt your private meditation with my _duties."_

He glanced about the glimmering walls of the comm center. "This doesn't appear to be the crèche or the kitchens," he drawled, unaccountably annoyed by her presence.

"Nor does it appear to be a chisszk-heap, so what are _you_ doing here, Kenobi?"

"Suffering for lack of pleasant company, I should think."

"It must be unbearable torment to live with yourself," she shot back.

He rose to his feet. "If your conversation is the alternative, I think I'll take the torment."

"A battle of wits is above your station in life, _farmer_."

He bowed. "I won't duel with an unarmed opponent."

Siri Tachi's hiss of indrawn breath was eerily similar to the snap of a saber blade. She was on her feet the next moment. "As I recall, Kenobi, last time we met in a dojo, _you_ went limping away with a nasty burn."

He cocked one brow. That was true ; but this was _now._ He was twice as skilled _now, _ and she was twice as provoking. "Your insufferable sanctimony is predicated on some dim memory of past glories? How pathetic."

Siri's sky-blue eyes flashed with actinic fury. Her lashes were transparent gold filaments, delicate fretting beneath her thunderously beetled brows. "I can still take you," she asserted- though, he noticed with a sharp pang of satisfaction deep in the gut, there was a undertone of bravado there, a hesitance born perhaps of seeing his kata practice the other morning. And he _was_ taller, more muscular now.

"I look forward to it," he said, truthfully. The pang in his gut seeped lower, twisted in the Force between them.

Siri's face was flushing, a lovely mottling of pink over high cheekbones and well-defined nose. Her lips pressed together determinedly.

The console behind them chimed, indicating an incoming transmission. It would have been difficult to say which of them sprang to answer the call first.

* * *

"Padawan," Adi Gallia's elegant figure shimmered slightly above the projector plate. "What is the status of the other teams' missions?"

Siri Tachi composed herself, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind one perfect ear and straightening her spine. "Two other escapees have been apprehended, master," she reported. "And Master Piell reports that he and Knight Koth may have discovered the hiding place of another group. If that's so, then the only one left is Carthag."

Adi nodded, the tails of her headdress swinging with the motion. "Good," she replied. "Keep up the fine work. I trust all is well at the Agri-Corps?"

"There was a passenger liner downed in the hillsides here," the young Jedi informed her teacher. "We staged an emergency rescue and the Corps headquarters has been turned into a temporary shelter. But there weren't many casualties."

Adi turned to someone off-camera, and presently Qui Gon Jinn appeared over her shoulder. "And you are both helping with the relief effort?" he asked.

"Yes, master. As best we can," Obi Wan responded.

"Obi Wan _was_ the initial relief effort," Siri interjected, generously. "He evacuated the ship at the crash site. Most the passengers got to safety just before it went up in flames.'

Qui Gon's brows rose, and he peered meaningfully at his Padawan. "Are you all right?" he inquired, sternly.

"As you can see, master." Obi Wan spread his hands and bowed slightly, thankful that this exchange was being made over hologram, and in company.

"Hm." The tall Jedi looked suspicious but he mercifully refrained from further comment.

"Your transponder code shows that you are en route to Karnas," Siri remarked. "Are you close to finding Carthag, master?"

Adi's expression was grim. "He has left a sinuous trail behind," she told her apprentice. "But we will catch up to him. Contact me as soon as Master Piell reports in again; possibly some of Carthag's accomplices can be persuaded to help with our hunt. They may have valuable information as to their ringleader's whereabouts."

"Yes, master," Siri nodded.

Adi Gallia inclined her head regally. "May the Force be with you," she told her Padawan, glancing up at Qui Gon to confirm that he, too, was finished.

But instead of signing off, the tall Jedi master leaned in closer over the holocam. "Obi Wan," he said quietly. "You are disturbed. What is it?."

The young Jedi smiled ruefully. He had been naïve to suppose distance and the technological medium would serve to blunt his master's perceptiveness. "Master, with your permission, I should like to investigate the crash site here. I … have reason to suspect foul play. I do not think it was entirely an accident."

Qui Gon's brow furrowed slightly. "The local authorities will also look into the site," he reminded his Padawan.

"Yes, master, I know…. But something isn't right."

"Is this an occasion of obstinate self-sufficiency?" Qui Gon inquired, with a meaningful look. His apprentice colored slightly, wishing momentarily that Adi and Siri were not witnesses to this conversation after all.

"I could take Padawan Tachi with me," he offered, apathetically.

Qui Gon's mouth twitched. "There is no need. But be cautious."

"Yes, master, I will."

"Good. And, Obi Wan – how is our mutual acquaintance faring?"

The Padawan beamed. "We have reached a satisfactory compromise," he informed his teacher, blithely. "I believe it is adjusting quite well."

The Jedi master's eyes narrowed, but he kept his thoughts to himself. "We will return as soon as possible. May the Force be with you."


	10. Chapter 10

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**10**

* * *

Siri Tachi showed up punctually for their first date, her weapon ready in hand and the set of her shoulders declaring a firm intention to deliver an unforgettable thrashing.

Obi Wan polished off the melorine fruit he had been snacking upon and tossed the pit nonchalantly into the composter on the dome's far side, deftly opening the container's lid at the last moment with a subtle nudge of the Force.

"I thought those fruits were _forbidden,"_ Siri remarked acidly.

He raised a brow. "So is _sparring_ for the sake of settling a personal dispute."

"We don't have a _dispute,"_ she corrected him. "_You_ have an attitude problem."

Dawn light softly illumined the interior of the greenhouse. "So I'm told," he smiled tightly, unclipping his saber and adjusting the power setting to low. "But I thought that was the subject of debate."

Siri's blade snapped into vibrant life, humming in the warm air beneath their chosen arena's dome. "I'm not arguing with you, Kenobi. I'm teaching you a lesson."

He saluted her, blade singing a bright and sonorous note as he swung it in the showiest display of speed and accuracy possible, tracing a quadruple helix about his body and ending in a casual guard position. Siri's eyes narrowed, and the Force flared with their mutual disdain.

"Best one out of one wins?" he suggested, tauntingly.

Siri Tachi was a talented swordswoman; she was fast, unpredictable, skilled, and cunning. It was a rare pleasure to cross blades with her, and so… since life in the Agri-Corps did not admit of many undiluted pleasures… Obi Wan prolonged the duel as much as possible. He parried, twisted, blocked and lunged, evading strike after strike by a hairsbreadth, not bothering to launch his own offensive. Siri's furious assault powered both of them, driving them through a complex dance around the perimeter of the small dome, across its width, and around the small space in the opposite direction, he retreating steadily and she pushing against his defenses with every ounce of her considerable resolve. Their sabers clashed, the edges shrieking in glorious discordant cacophony as they met and parted and locked together again, always whirling, slicing, cutting, slashing, spinning, hammering down in blinding streaks of blue fire.

It was intoxicating.

Obi Wan rolled backward over one shoulder, evading a killing blow. He sprang upright and leapt, spiraling over Siri's head, to land behind her. Her pivot was flawless, but he still had the advantage; and in the next instant their roles were reversed and he was on the offensive, raining down a hailstorm of Ataru lightning from every direction, airborne more often than he was upon the ground, grinning widely in sheer exhilaration.

Siri stood her ground, commanding the center of the space, fighting hard to withstand the onslaught. "_Ataru_ is a circus show, not a fighting style," she snarled.

He landed, made a lightning quick feint, came in under her guard and disarmed her in one fluid, economical motion. Her saber deactivated as it skittered under a row of shelves.

"_Fierfek," _ she hissed. "What was that?"

"Makashi," Obi Wan informed her, gallantly holding her at saber point. Her face was highlighted in blue by the pulsing blade.

"Master Jinn is teaching you _Makashi?"_ she said, incredulous.

"No." He backed her slowly into the curved wall of the dome. "Master Dooku."

Siri's left heel hit the plasteel paneling. Her eyes flashed, and she twisted to the side, ducking and reaching a hand out to summon her fallen saber back into her grip. Obi Wan held out a hand and sent it sailing in the opposite direction again, twisting with her, slipping behind and pinning her free arm in a Corellian wrestling hold.

"You sneaky _barve!"_ his captive spat out. He pulled her closer, until he had his other arm wrapped tight about her waist, his knee locked on the inside of her thigh, her weight off-balance, dependent on his whim. Her golden hair was coming loose from the braid's tight plaiting, tickling his nose and chin as she struggled vainly for release. "Who taught you that low-down spice-smuggler's tactic?" she demanded, breathless. "Master Jinn or Master Dooku?"

He grinned, leaning in close to her ear. "Master _Kenobi_."

Siri's retort devolved into an inarticulate yelp as he tightened his grip yet further, forestalling any attempt at escape.

"Yield," he suggested. "Before I decide to cut off your hair as a trophy."

She stiffened in outrage. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Jedi do not affect personal ornaments." Siri's hair was silken soft, even bound tightly in its thick braid. "I would be promoting your humility. And you forget, I am a dishonorable, treasonous, sneaky barve. So really, why wouldn't I ?"

"Fine, you arrogant _gundark_... I yield! This time."

He released her, summoned her weapon into his hand and returned it with a deep bow. "Thank you for the _lesson, _ Padawan Tachi. I am in your debt."

Siri graced him with a look of cold dignity, bowed formally, and withdrew in an icy silence, the greenhouse door admitting a blast of frigid air into the dome as she exited.

* * *

Karnas was by no means a convenient detour; the hyperspace route required a complex set of jumps, and a frustrating length of time in transit, even in the powerful Republic light shuttle.

"You're too lax with that Padawan of yours," Adi interrupted the cockpit's silence with an unsolicited opinion. "He's headstrong, too much so to be granted such liberties."

Qui Gon's lips thinned. "He is headstrong; but his instincts are very good. If he says there is something amiss, I am confident it is so."

"Perhaps," the other Jedi master granted, "But the local authorities should be competent to handle it. When will he learn not to throw himself headlong into every crisis that presents itself?"

The tall man leaned back. "You mean, when will _I_ learn the same?"

Adi released a gentle snort of laughter and turned to face him fully. Her voice was deep, rich in timbre. "_One_ of you is going to have to act as anchor, Jinn. And you're too old to learn new tricks. What will happen when your famous luck runs out?"

"There's no such thing as luck," he reminded her, forcing his tone to remain casual.

"I'll be quite frank with you," the Tholothian pressed on, ignoring his attempt at lightness. "I argued for a much _longer_ term of probation in the Agri-Corps. It was Master Yoda who whittled it down to six weeks."

The Force flashed with sudden resentment. Qui Gon exhaled very deliberately. He tipped his head back slightly. "This has more to do with your Padawan than mine," he stated, simply.

Adi was a Jedi master, and did not deny it. "I trust Siri to comport herself appropriately. We had a lengthy discussion regarding Padawan Kenobi before we landed on Ord Ursolon."

"Indeed." Qui Gon was a Jedi master, and understood that this _discussion_ had also encompassed much about himself and his infamous maverick streak.

"If he drags her into trouble, I will personally oversee the consequences," Adi promised.

"Apparently you lack confidence in your apprentice's prudence," he remarked, clamping down on his rising annoyance.

Adi shrugged and raised her brows. "She is young, and so is he."

Qui Gon held his peace. Their mission was too vital to be sidetracked by a personal dispute. Perhaps later, at the Temple, he would invite Adi to spar with him. But for now, he chose to maintain a collegial peace.

"True enough," he demurred.

* * *

Obi Wan swung the rickety Agri-Corps speeder to a halt just outside the reforestation project and deactivated the remote security sensor using the code Alepo had provided. A bleep on the controller's screen gave him clearance to nudge the hovercraft over the buried magneto-line and meander his way through the newly seeded area to the edge of the young forest.

He swung himself over the speeder's side and crunched his way over the frost-laden earth toward the eastern boundary. He had chosen a place with a pretty view, one that Qui Gon would have admired for its pristine majesty, the stark vales and ridges of the ascending hills, the gorges where water had flowed in abundance before Ord Ursolon's ecological devastation.

The thing was still there, very much alive, and perceptibly larger. Its phenomenal rate of growth alone confirmed the wisdom of moving it to a new home; he was fairly certain it would soon no longer comfortably fit inside the Agri-Corps housing unit's small rooms.

"You're turning into quite the sarlaac," he teased it, cautiously approaching the central stalk. Tentacles writhed about his ankles, crept up his back and played with his nerftail and braid. He swatted a few of the more prurient tendrils away and unwrapped the small package he had brought for the creature's delectation.

"Mandrangea bean patties," he announced. "Vegetarian fare all this week – but, mind you, these _are highly nutritive, Padawan; a Jedi should not be so particular about his vittles."_

The plant snatched the highly nutritive offering out of his hand with an alacrity suggestive of vexed intolerance for prolonged lecturing, and promptly dropped the bean patties into its mouth-like cavity. A moment later, however, its esteem for vegetarian cuisine seemed to plummet sharply; the tooth-ridges parted and the spattered remnants of its meal flew in all directions, a veritable explosion of processed vegetable matter. Only Obi Wan's Jedi reflexes saved him from the unsavory shrapnel.

On cue, a brindle-coated springer emerged from beneath the nearby trees, intrigued by the sudden rainfall of edible matter, and set to eating the tentacled thing's far-flung emesis. Quicker than thought, a thick tendril snapped forward and coiled about the unfortunate animal, choking its life off with a rib-crushing constrictor's vise. The furry morsel was quickly hoisted into the air, and dropped into the gaping orifice in the plant's center. The serrated ridges meshed together; the bulbous chamber beneath swelled; and the coils and arms of the predator rippled with gentle satisfaction.

Obi Wan stepped backward, repulsed. "So uncivilized," he muttered. "_Uugh, _ master." He beat a hasty retreat downhill, his pricking conscience assuaged by the confirmation that Qui Gon's pathetic life form was, to say the least, flourishing under his expert care.

He steeled himself for the task ahead, and headed for the crash site.

* * *

The crash site was a dark fortress in the Force, its twisted, molten ramparts bedecked with ethereal tatters of dread and malice. The ship's ruins rose from the rocky hillside like the carcass of some mighty beast, blackened and blasted open by the explosion, its innards strewn over its hull, dangling in clots and bunches from shredded bulkheads, ruined decking.

It took an effort of will to push forward, and climb into the empty framework. There was little to be seen. Emergency workers had obviously removed any sentient remains that could be found after the explosion; yet death lingered about the place, as did the stench of slagged metal, melted plastoid, innumerable toxic engine coolants and drive lubricants. Obi Wan's flesh crawled.

He wasn't sure what it was he thought to find here; he knew only that what he had seen, what he had _felt,_ during those desperate minutes of the rescue, had been the traces of malice. He picked his way through the warped hold toward the cockpit. The doors had been blasted clean off by the final conflagration; he slipped over the threshold into the mangled remains of the ship's control center. The blackening of fire had not eradicated all traces of the pilots' sudden deaths. The Force shifted beneath him, nauseating.

He gripped the charred doorframe and closed his eyes. The Force seemed to heave and roll, a spasming that echoed in his own gut, a choking and retching, as though some secret were ready to be spat up from hidden depths. He clenched his teeth, riding out the awful sensation… and then wheeled about, certain beyond all rational explanation that he was being _watched._

His hand went to his saber's hilt, and he half-crouched, reaching through the Force, seeking the other presence...

Nothing.

He drew in a deep breath. Bad nerves? Or an echo, something dredged up from the past, a memory lingering in the aching Force here?

Either way, it was enough. He jumped away, bounding down through the wreckage to the cold ground, pulling the duster close against the pervasive chill. Night was approaching, and on the distant horizon, an angry brewing of red and orange could be seen rising like a flood. By now he could easily recognize the signs of an imminent dust storm, and made no delay in returning to the landspeeder. At this altitude, he was safe from the bitter storm; but it would never do to be caught in the lowlands between here and the safety of the Agri-domes when the dark winds came clawing across the plains.

He jumped into the lightweight vehicle and powered down the hillside at a swift clip, outracing the oncoming wall of dust clouds and leaving the ominous corpse of the fallen ship behind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**11**

* * *

"Kriff it boy, cutting it a little close, aren't you?" Alepo chided, helping Obi Wan push the hovering speeder into its storage shed. The first edges of the storm had already arrived, whipping dust and grit into spinning columns, thrashing at the plasteel walls of the Agri-Corps outbuildings.

"Better late than never," he replied.

"Next time I'm sealing the domes and leavin' you out in the elements," Alepo threatened. "You can mouth off to Mother Nature, see how far that gets you. Sound fair to you?"

Obi Wan knew better than to aggravate the horticulturalist any further. "Yes, sir."

Alepo snorted, his wrath dissipating. "This vaping dust storm's gonna delay the Ord Fromag people. Won't be seeing that evacuation transport until the storm's done… and comms are down for the duration, too. These people are gonna eat up all our surplus and then some before we've seen this through." He sighed, and chivvied the young Jedi into the protective walkway connecting the vehicle shed to the main dome network. "Why don't you go get a bite, and then I need a hand securing the perimeter shields. You gotta half hour."

"I'll be there," the Padawan promised.

Alepo chuffed his approval and retreated in the opposite direction, toward dome two. Obi Wan continued through the narrow tunnel until it issued him into the temporary dining hall. The odor of mandrangea beans filled the warm air. He sighed and took up his place in the serving line, calling upon his diplomatic training to feign gratitude when a weary Ag-Corps staff member dumped a generous helping of bean curry and rizzo on his plate.

"Here, young fellow! Come keep an old man company!"

His retreat to the far corner was derailed by this amicable invitation, issued by the man called Choollo. The grizzle-haired fellow was scooting over on his own bench, making space for Obi Wan at his table. A gnarled hand summoned the young Jedi over; Choollo's face creased into happy lines of expectation; a few heads turned to observe the exchange.

He slipped into place beside his would-be friend in order to avoid making a scene.

"Did you hear?" Choollo confided in him. "Comms are down for the duration of the storm, and the evac team can't get through until its done, either." He sighed and shook his head. "Not that I'm ungrateful, but the sooner I can leave this whole incident behind and get on with my life, the better."

"I understand," Obi Wan assured him, wolfing down his dinner in the interest of time and, perhaps, not having to endure the flavor of mandrangea beans longer than strictly necessary.

His companion chuckled. "Young people your age always feel that way, no matter their circumstance," he declared. "You should slow down, look around, enjoy what's in front of you. For example, that other Jedi lass… what's her name? Tachi? She's a mighty pretty girl, you must admit."

"I haven't noticed," he lied, digging into the pile of rizzo. Apparently Choollo had no familiarity with the Jedi Code.

But Choollo was in an avuncular mood, and not to be put off. "What are you two doing here, anyway?" he inquired. "Don't Padawans always travel in the company of a master?"

So the man was better informed than his initial remarks might have suggested. "Our masters are on a mission," he responded tersely. "I expect you will have departed before they return."

Choollo nodded, his intelligent eyes twinkling. "Not anything to do with that prison break all over the news, is it?" he guessed. "What a terrible thing. Terrible. Are they close to finding that fellow Carthag, do you know?"

The Padawan shook his head apologetically. "Mission details are confidential," he answered. Then, to divert the conversation from this awkward vein, he added, "May I ask you a question about the crash?"

"Of course. I suppose you would be interested, being the hero of the day and all."

Obi Wan scowled. "No – but did you notice anything wrong? Was there a problem in the cockpit? Did the pilots say anything, make an announcement, explain why you reverted or entered atmosphere? What happened just before the ship went down?"

Choolloo surveyed him with raised brows, a faint smile pulling at his creased face. "Whoa-ho," he exclaimed jovially. "All that happened in the passenger hold was a general conniption. I assumed we had a major systems malfunction. Did you know I've always dreaded hyperspace travel? It just gives me the jitters. Truth be known, I _hate_ flying. And after this accident… I daresay I'll never make another interstellar journey in my life.'

Obi Wan frowned. "I think it was a hijacking gone wrong," he asserted quietly.

But Choollo only laughed at him again. "You Jedi are an imaginative bunch. Oh dear – now I've insulted you. Do forgive an old man, I don't mean to belittle your instincts."

"No offense taken." He took his leave with a bow, half-tossing the empty plate into a nearby receptacle. Alepo was expecting him, and this line of inquiry would clearly yield nothing. He stalked out of the dome, brooding upon his indefinite and irksome bad feeling, and wishing that the communications system was not out of commission while the storm blew. This would have been a time to contact Qui Gon - if only to vent his unsettling suspicions into some solid grounding, some wise bedrock in which his vague unrest might be unleashed and dissolve into patience and reassurance.

But this was not to be, so he went to find Alepo and whatever chores the botanist had in store for him.

* * *

Karnas was a favorite layover on many inter-rim smuggling routes, primarily due to the local government's laissez faire attitude to any form of commerce which kept its tax revenues flowing steadily. As long as pilots declared the contents of their cargo holds on the required Republic customs forms and paid the requisite sums, the officials were content not to bother with the tedious formality of verification. A quick transmission to the Temple, and a rapid consultation of the database records there, directed the Jedi to the likeliest "free trade" center on-planet, a spaceport town in the northeastern hemisphere.

"Charming," Adi remarked as a large native insect collided drunkenly with her face. She brushed the enormous creature away and surveyed the bustling interior courtyards of the docking area. Droids and ground mechanics, pilots and crew, service clerks and uniformed officials swarmed over the duracrete amid a deafening riot of noise.

The Jedi headed for the outskirts, where cheap hostelries and the usual assortment of taverns and shops were clustered beneath a long arcade. Seeking for a distant Force echo here was like trawling a river in full flood; but they had little choice. It was not likely that Carthag had remained here longer than necessary to meet his contact; but unless they could find some fresh clue, his next destination would remain a mystery.

They patrolled the long pedestrian concourse twice in each direction, without success.

"This seems to be a dead end," Adi admitted after almost an hour. "I sense nothing."

"A solution will present itself, " Qui Gon responded placidly. He turned a slow circle, gazing at the milling crowds, the shop patrons, the busy servitor droids.

On cue, a voice hailed them from the covered portico of a café. "Hey! Jedi!"

The tall master quirked a smile at his companion and strode over to the stranger's table, straddling one of the small wrought-metal chairs. The reptilian opposite stirred the pale blue foam atop his caff thoughtfully, and took a long sip, smoothing the front of his synthsilk jacket. "I know who you're looking for," he smiled, displaying an alarming row of small, pointed teeth.

The Jedi master folded his hands over the back of the chair, waiting. Adi hovered nearby, senses on the alert for signs of treachery.

The reptilian set his cup down precisely in the center of its saucer and patted his lipless mouth with a delicate mincing motion, folding the napkin carefully into his lap again. "If you're wondering where Soll Carthag is, I might be able to help you," he said, his voice a sibilant hiss issuing from between his wide jaws.

Qui Gon tilted his head back. "For a price, I presume?"

A forked tongue shot out and flickered humorously. The fellow's nictitating membranes snapped over his bulbous eyes a few times. "Your Republic ship's transponder beacon codes would be very…. Useful… for someone in my line of work," he suggested casually.

Adi Gallia's brows beetled together. Qui Gon ignored her. "Really? But you would prefer to tell me without payment," he insisted, making a subtle gesture beneath the table with one hand.

His interlocutor blinked apathetically. "I don't think so," he smiled, folding his clawed hands atop the clean linen.

Qui Gon shot a quelling glance at Adi. "Very well," he answered. "And where is Soll Carthag?"

The reptilian raised one scaly brow. "He met Chucabra Yollo here a few days ago; they boarded a passenger liner together. Departing from terminal seven." The tongue flicked in and out again, sharply. "Shall we… have a look at your ship's ID codes now? I am sure you Jedi have need of haste."

The tall Jedi master stood, holding out a hand. "After you."

* * *

There wasn't a half-meter's space to spare on the floors of Agri-domes three and four, nor inside the small housing unit. Vehicles, equipment, and smaller plants had all been crammed inside the protective greenhouses for the duration of the storm, leaving precious little room for the hundred some-odd sentients also taking shelter beneath their curving plasteel roofs. Obi Wan found himself hard-pressed to find a humble nook or corner in which to spread his own sleeping mat.

Until he thought to take advantage of the vertical dimension.

The main dome housed Alepo's sprawling bean rows and a flourishing orchard. There wasn't much space among the neat rows and beds which extended to the convex walls; but high above, the rafters beckoned, promising a rare peace and privacy. The young Jedi used his cable launcher to pull himself to the girder he and Qui Gon had recently repaired. There, balanced atop the thick durasteel beam, he used a tarp and some spare cord from the supply sheds to rig himself a simple but sturdy hammock. He slipped into it, like a caterpillar into its pendant cocoon, and tucked his hands behind his head.

It was perfect; at the top of the dome, the temperature was cozy; the hammock gently swayed back and forth in some subtle air current, a lovely soporific rhythm; and the storm outside was visible through the grime and moisture smeared dome as a kaleidoscopic dance of warm color and swirling wind-forms. He relaxed into the moment, into the silence and the warmth and the scent of the rich soil and foliage rising up to surround him.

Qui Gon would have loved this high and secret eyrie; it was a pity the Jedi master wasn't here to share the perfection of the moment.

Presently, he felt Siri Tachi's bright Force signature appear inside the dome, far far below on the ground amid the mandrangea beans. She was doubtlessly looking for a place to sleep for the night. It was tempting to shield his own presence and leave her to her own devices; but an unexpected pang of comradeship with his fellow Padawan prompted him to lean over the side of his makeshift nest and call down to her. After their little…discussion… this morning, he was feeling generous toward her.

Fifteen minutes later, she was neatly ensconced in her own hammock beside him. They lay in silence and watched the storm curl and slither along the outside of the dome, breathed deeply of the lush air, redolent of sap and bark and fresh green leaves. It was luxuriantly warm beneath the dim vault of the dome roof.

"Thank you for not cutting off my hair earlier," Siri offered, after a long silence.

Surprised, he smiled. "I wasn't going to, anyway," he admitted.

"I know."

She did? Oh. Well, then.

"Master Gallia has suggested more than once that it is an inappropriate personal ornament," Siri continued, as though eager to justify herself in his eyes. "But she hasn't ordered me to lop it off. I … I don't think she will."

He frowned quietly to himself. It was only _hair…_ he would have to ask Bant about this sometime. Although, his aquatic Mon Calamari friend was distinctly hairless, so perhaps she wouldn't have any useful insight. "But you would if she did."

"Of course. It doesn't really matter."

Then why hadn't she shorn it off already? He puzzled over this for a moment, then shrugged. If he was feeling bold, he might ask Master Uvain to explain it to him, when she returned from her mission. Or – he smirked a little – Master Qui Gon. After all, his own esteemed mentor sported a similarly inappropriate personal ornament. And come to think of it, Adi Gallia was never seen without her traditional Tholothian headdress. So this would appear to be one of the precepts that was honored more in the breach than the observance.

They watched the storm swirl and morph outside the dome. In the dark, in the quiet, the rasp of dust particles against the hard canopy overhead sounded deceptively like gentle rainfall.

"I'm surprised anyone would bother trying to restore a wasteland like this," Siri remarked after another long stretch of silence.

"Alepo says the lowlands may never recover," Obi Wan told her. "But you should see the hills. The reforested parts are thriving.. And there are waterfalls, and meadows., and even some snow on the peaks. It's beautiful."

"It sounds a bit like Alderaan. Have you and Master Jinn ever been there?"

"Not yet. We did go to Yarrod Minor, though; and Ragoon. And Tanaab… though _beautiful_ might not be the right word for the Peninsula."

"I'd like to see the better side of Ord Ursolon," Siri decided. "It would be good to see what all this-" she waved a hand at the dome above, the orchards and garden beds below-"-ultimately produces. It's easy to think of the Service Corps as inconsequential."

"Don't let Alepo hear you say it," he remarked wryly. "He has a way of making his work seem _very_ consequential."

Her laughter textured the warmth with a bright cascade of notes. It was a nice laugh, when it was not edged with scorn. He smiled and snugged deeper into the cloth of his sling, the Force smoothing into something more than tolerance, if not quite true understanding. He shifted his saber so it did not dig into his hipbone, and relaxed even further, drifting with the subtle motion of the hammock, only half-heartedly resisting the inexorable pull of sleep.

"I'll take you out there," he offered, around a wide yawn. "You really should see it. When the storm subsides."

"Mm," Siri drowsily agreed.

And they drifted away into welcome slumber, nestled in their secret rooting places high above the verdant expanse of Alepo's private kingdom.


	12. Chapter 12

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**12**.

* * *

Obi Wan waited glumly in the doorframe while Siri tried every possible channel and amplifier sequence.

"That's it," she grunted in exasperation. "Not a single blasted signal relay survived. The storm must have blown all the external receivers."

"What about a beacon?" he asked.

She swivelled. "What good would that do?"

He crossed his arms defensively. "Master Jinn taught me how to use an emergency beacon signal to carry a coded message from a comlink."

Siri raised her brows. "Message-in-a-bottle? That's not going to help us, Kenobi. Alepo Sator's going to be livid – all the comm equipment needs to be repaired, and I don't think the Corps has enough spare parts for this much damage."

He wandered into the dim control room, dissatisfied. "Wonderful."

Siri Tachi tipped her head to one side. "It's _my_ problem," she told him. "You can still pull weeds and spread chisszk without the comm center."

He turned on his heel.

"Wait!" Siri rose from her station and hurried after him. "I'm sorry – that wasn't – I mean, I shouldn't have said that. I don't mean it."

He stopped on the threshold, irritation warring with forgiveness. He was sorely tempted to point out that her communications problem extended far beyond the fried circuits in the Ag Corps station…. But in the end he swallowed down the jibe and turned back into the small room. "What _did_ you mean, then?" he demanded, not willing to let her off the hook entirely.

Siri Tachi _did_ possess a heart, somewhere beneath the prickles and barbs of her exterior. She uncurled a very little. "I'm sorry," she repeated, exhaling slowly. The Force eddied, smoothed. "I want so very badly to handle this well… for Master Gallia. It's the first time I've been on my own." A blush spread over her face, and she looked away.

Oh. His arms came uncrossed. "I understand," he said, stepping back into the dark space.

She raised reluctant eyes to his, and dredged up a snort of laughter. "You? I thought you were _here_ because you think you're ready to take to the galaxy single-handed without guidance?"

That was unfair. He frowned, wondering whence she had derived that notion. And then he brushed it aside. _Pride_ cared about such things. In the moment, he was working toward _understanding,_ like a good diplomat. "I would very much like to speak with Master Jinn right now," he confessed.

It seemed to work. Siri brightened almost immediately, strangely emboldened by his show of vulnerability. "Let's try that comlink trick," she said, tugging him forward by the hand. "Maybe we can reach them."

A shared purpose was a welcome relief from vague anxiety; and while their efforts ultimately ended in failure, and a risky depletion of the emergency beacon's power reserves, they did at least have a mutually calming effect. They had just given up on the fruitless project when Alepo Sator made an appearance.

"What's the bad news?" he grumbled.

Siri grimaced. "I'm afraid all the comm relays will have to be replaced. Are there spares on site?"

The botanist shook his head and shoved long hands into the grimy pockets of his work-apron with a low whistle. "Normally, we'd send a courier for supplies from the spaceport, but I'd bet my last credit they're hard put to fix their own damage. That storm was a son of a gundark. Farked the blazes outta us, that's for sure. And the evac people won't come in 'till we can give them an all clear signal. – if they even made it into orbit before the storms hit. We need comms, vape it."

"We could stil send a courier," Obi Wan offered. "I'll go. Even if there's a secondary storm, I can handle the speeder in high winds."

"That's kind of you, lad, but we might have a better option. I was speaking to one of the refugees here –retired engineer, apparently. Choollo's his name. He thinks he can strip some circuits off the wreck. That's closer than the spaceport and worth a try."

The two young Jedi stood, eager for action.

"Right," Alepo ordered. "You two take him out there, give him a hand with whatever he needs, and get back here double-quick. Got it?"

"You can rely on us," Siri promised, as they jogged out the door on their way to find Choollo, and a solution.

* * *

Qui Gon watched their helpful reptilian friend slink away across the hangar deck, the Rebuplic transponder beacon codes transcribed onto a data chit tucked inside his expensive jacket's breast pocket.

"That, technically, was a grand felony," Adi Gallia remarked dryly behind him.

He raised his brows. "Until next month, when the codes are routinely updated," he pointed out. "I'll ride out the statute of limitations."

The Tholothian tsked under her breath, likely wondering how many such technical misdemeanors the redoubtable Master Jinn had to his credit. Qui Gon did not offer further information, and she turned back to the shipboard database. "Found him," she announced a moment later. "Chucabra Yollo. Matarraxi- humanoid, often Force-opaque like Hutts…. He's a known crime syndicate boss, but there's indication his operation in thisi sector was recently ousted by Hutt interests. Probably Virmma's people."

"That would explain Virmma's refusal to cooperate."

Adi leaned over the scrolling display. "He's quiet – organizes things from a distance. There is not sufficient evidence of his involvement in anything to merit prosecution – he is referred to as the Old Gentleman of the Underworld… why he would choose to ally himself with a madman like Carthag is beyond me."

"Do not underestimate the malice of kind old gentlemen," Qui Gon advised her. "Appearances can be deceiving." He sat at the second terminal, which he had earlier linked to the spaceport's main traffic control system. Results flashed across the holo-display. He scanned through the numerous columns of departing flights, hundreds and hundreds of possibilities shimmering in tiny font above the projector plate.

"Terminal seven is a busy place," Adi sighed.

Qui Gon froze in place, and stopped the swiftly moving columns of information. "Here," he said, jaw clenching.

Adi leaned over his shoulder. "Reported missing – presumed malfunction – where was that ship headed?"

They compared the hyperspace navigation charts to the passenger ship's intended itinerary. "No," Adi gasped, her hand tightening around the edge of the console.

But they both knew there was no coincidence in the Force.

* * *

"This had better be good," Siri warned. "It's _freezing_ up here."

'I'll wait in the speeder," Choollo smiled. "You young folks have fun, but make it quick, if you don't mind."

"It's worth the trip," Obi Wan promised, leading Siri up the incline, along the swell of rocky land skirting the more established forest. They crested the last swell, and dipped down onto the hill's far side, where the peerless vista opened below, a verdant sanctuary of soaring cliffs and tumbling waterfalls, ice-clad peaks and soft valleys lush with dark, enticing foliage.

Siri's stunned breath escaped in a thin white vapor-cloud. Her eyes shone to match the wind-swept skies. "Beautiful," she agreed.

"Come see this, too," he urged, beckoning her along the narrow foot-path, the one leading to Qui Gon's pet project.

"It has _tentacles," _ Siri remarked, taking a cautious step backward. "And _teeth."_

"It's quite friendly," Obi Wan assured her, "…So long as you weigh over ten kilos." As though to demonstrate his sincerity , a few stray tendrils began their customary amicable climb up his legs, coiling and slithering upward, poking at his chest and trying to insert themselves into his ears. He swatted and wriggled his way free of the most inquisitive appendages. "No snacks today," he informed it.

One or two tentacles made a tentative foray in Siri's direction, prodding at her boots and kneecaps. One bold tendril slid up her front, nudging experimentally at her collarbone and chin. Her lip curled, but she endured the examination quietly. There was a moment's thoughtful pause… and then the green limbs convulsed, shoving her backward with a brassy snap. Siri landed skidding on her backside.

Smothering his incipient laughter behind one hand, Obi Wan dashed forward to help her – only to find himself fettered in place by his acquaintance's obstreperous tentacles. It took a moment's protracted struggle to free himself from the firm restraint of their embrace, and by that time Siri had found her own feet again.

"It's as friendly as you are," she observed, with a touch of churlishness.

"It's never done that before," he replied, helplessly.

Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers brushed her saber hilt. "And it will never do it _again, _either," she growled.

Obi Wan decided to salvage what he could of this diplomatic debacle. "The view is beautiful," he reminded her, leading the way down the path to the speeder, where Choollo patiently awaited their return.

In answer, she brushed past him and continued down the narrow trail at a smart clip, her long cloak skirling irritably at her heels.

* * *

The hulking ruins of the passenger cruiser were decked with icicles, lovely webs of frosting clinging to the darkened hull shielding. Obi Wan pulled the speeder to a halt beside the sculptured mass of metal.

Choollo leaned forward from the back row, laying a hand upon either Padawan's shoulder. "Look at that," he sighed. "It reminds me how fragile is life. Let me give you two youngsters some wisdom gleaned over many years. _Seize the day. _You never know when it might be your last."

The young Jedi exchanged a bemused look.

Their companion chuckled deprecatingly. "Just the ravings of an old man. But better to reach out and grasp what you can, before cruel fate rips it away, hm?"

"We came here to salvage circuits for the comm. unit at the Ag Corps," Siri reminded him tartly. "The philosophy lesson can wait." She swung herself over the vehicle's side.

"Oh ho, a practical minded woman," the old gentleman chuffed. "Watch out, young sir, such a lass always gets her way in the end."

Obi Wan did not deign to make reply. Instead he held out a hand to help their would-be guru clamber out of the speeder.

"All right, then," Choollo instructed, rubbing his hands together in the bitter air. "Ah.." he addressed Siri. "Why don't you check the starboard cargo-hold bulkheads? The extra insulation back there might have preserved the wiring from damage during the explosion. Oh dear… you may need a fusion cutter to get through the plastoid."

Siri Tachi hefted her 'saber in one hand. "I'm well equipped."

Choollo nodded, waving her away. "See if there's anything to be stripped. I don't care what it belongs to – just any bit of cable. Now, my young friend, why don't you help me with the forward transponder?"

Obi Wan looked dubiously toward the charred and mangled bows of the liner. "I don't think anything survived the initial impact," he said.

But Choollo quieted him with a dismissive gesture. "You'd be surprised what can survive a crash like this. These transponder boxes are designed to take a beating – the authorities can recover last flight trajectories and so on, that way… helps with litigation and insurance issues, nothing you Jedi would be concerned about…"

They tramped along beneath the ruined hull, to the far end of the wreck. Obi Wan sucked in a sharp breath.

"Here, see if you can cut off this – what's the matter now?" the grizzle haired man asked.

_Danger. Danger. Danger._

"What 's wrong –" Choollo exclaimed.

"Siri!" Obi Wan cried out, leaping back toward the crushed cargo hold, scattering grit and frost beneath his boots, his 'saber hilt leaping into his hand.

He leapt, heart hammering, into the open aft hatchway, his weapon spitting blue fire, sweeping a warning arc through the gloom. Siri was sprawled face-down upon the decks, her hair glimmering ghostly against the rumpled folds of her cloak. Danger and sudden lightning flared across the Force, tautened his every nerve. He slid forward, seeking for a hidden foe, seeing and feeling nothing, no one lurking in the shadows. Siri was a pace away, unmoving. He pivoted, weapon thrumming in warning. Nothing. No one.

He dropped to one knee, reached out his left hand to touch her arm… and triggered the same hidden electro-pulse field that she had.

Instant black oblivion followed close upon the initial jolt of agony. He collapsed atop Siri's still form, his weapon's hilt rolling from slack fingers.

* * *

_That seems like a good place to stop, doesn't it? Traveling this weekend.. next update Tues _8/7/12. -r.b.


	13. Chapter 13

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**13.**

* * *

The plastoid bulkheads were not only warped and charred – a predictable result of the explosion consequent upon the ship's initial impact – but they were also stained, and brittle with age. Hairline cracks fretted the smooth white surface where the insulated wall curved down to meet the scuffed decking material. It was… seedy. Rather like the interior appointments of the _Monument, _of undying and unpleasant memory. The Hutt-controlled _Monument_ had been ill maintained and decrepit, also; and it had been full of uncivilized people too. The recollection seemed to jolt something deep within him, and in another heartbeat Obi Wan was fully and disturbingly awake.

He was on his side, facing the interior cargo hold wall; his ankles were firmly secured with some kind of thick wire; and his wrists were similarly bound behind his back. In fact, they were tied exceedingly tightly to somebody _else's_ hands. He could feel the weight and warmth of another pair of shoulders pressing against his own, and by craning his head sideways he could glimpse enough cream-colored tunic and golden hair to confirm the identity of his partner in captivity.

"Siri," he whispered hoarsely, but she made no answer. Her presence was dull, muted. He concluded that she must still be unconscious. They had been utterly stupid to be caught in such a trap – but then, what reason had they to suspect one? And why had the Force not given more warning? Was Choollo behind this predicament? And if so, did he have a co-conspirator? And were either or both of them able to shield their intentions in the Force?

Any way he looked at it, this was not good.

A bit more industrious squirming and squinting earned him the reward of several other foreboding revelations: he and Siri had both been stripped of lightsaber and comlink; the wire that held their hands and feet pinioned had also been wound into makeshift collars about their necks, and was routed through one of the ship's utility power outlets; and there were two voices speaking in the corridor just beyond: one familiar and one unfamiliar, but both leaving a spreading stain of malice in the uneasily rippling Force.

"Siri," he tried again, nudging against her without effect. This was well beyond _not good._ It was verging on outright _bad._ He drew in several Yamalsa technique deep calming breaths and centered his focus on the conversation outside the bay doors. Information was power, and power was freedom. What could be the subject of debate out there?

Choollo's voice was easily recognizable. "Patience!" he reprimanded his unseen companion. "Those two are money in the bank, do you understand? You don't touch them until I'm done negotiating."

This was met by a deep and rumbling objection, one issued in accented tones that Obi Wan placed as Klatooinian. His heart sank. He knew little about Qui Gon's current mission; but he had done enough covert database research to know that the escaped convict Soll Carthag was of Klatooinian extraction. And the Force left no doubt in his mind: the strange rasping voice belonged to the infamous killer. Somehow, horribly, Carthag had been aboard the crashed liner, and had been hiding here all along.

Come to think of it, Obi Wan might have saved the infernal barve's life. He gritted his teeth and released a very resentful breath.

"Yes, me," Choollo was saying, anger tinting his own voice now. "We wouldn't be in this fix if you hadn't botched the hijacking with your over-enthusiasm."

His fellow criminal snorted out some tart reply, one that Obi Wan could not quite make out but which clearly bore all the emphatic disdain of a hearty curse.

The thump of heavy footfalls came nearer as the speakers slowly paced along the adjacent corridor.

"What are you talking about?" Choollo snorted. "You've got disruptors and two drones, don't you? And a full case of ammo for your toy there. And that trap you rigged up in the hold was quite clever. Impressive for someone more accustomed to relying on equipment than brains."

The Klatooinian grunted another acid reply, and the footfalls carried the pair away again, toward the ruined passenger hold and the destroyed cockpit beyond.

"Siri!" Obi Wan tried yet again, this time prodding at her mind with the Force, none too gently.

She groaned and shifted against him. "….It's a trap," she mumbled, some of her disorientation and soreness echoing across the Force. Then, less lethargically, "Kenobi?" Then, every bit as sharp and alert as ever, "What in the blazes are _you_ doing here too?"

He could not see her face but he could well imagine the sarcastically tilted eyebrow. "I felt that you were in danger," he explained. "…And then I came to _help_ you."

"Nice job," came the facetious reply.

"We're in this together," he pointed out, temper flaring. "A little collegial respect would be appreciated."

"Your incompetence is inspiring," she snapped back at him.

"I suppose it _would_ be, by comparison to your own ineptitude."

"If you're so clever, then what's your brilliant plan?"

"To _escape,"_ he drawled sardonically. "Though I shan't impose upon you if you've other plans."

"I don't need your _irony, _ Kenobi!"

"I don't require your charming company, either."

"We are kriffing _tied together,_ in case you hadn't noticed, " Siri snarled.

As a matter of fact, he _had_ noticed; and it was a mercy of the sweet Force that it hadn't been face-to-face. At least this way he didn't have to tolerate Siri Tachi's smug expression. "Really."

"Yes." She sat up roughly, hauling him painfully upright along with her. They leaned against one another's back, knees folded before them, heads turned over one shoulder, temples and cheeks just brushing together. Siri's hot breath set the loose strands of her hair fluttering over his face. Her fingers abruptly twisted into his, and stayed there. Surprised, but not … displeased… he offered a gentle reassuring pressure.

"The Force," he reminded her.

"Yes. I know. I – I'm sorry. I've never been in this situation before."

"I have," he replied grimly. "Just remember our training. Don't center on your anxieties; focus on finding a solution." And in saying these words to her, he found that he himself came to believe them more firmly. How strange. And an even stranger thought flickered across his racing mind. Did Qui Gon ever…? But no. That was unthinkable.

Siri's clasp upon his fingers did not loosen, but the sour tang of fear in the Force dissolved into a bright and ferocious resolution. Siri Tachi was a fighter, down to her core. "Relax. Pay attention. Conserve strengths and resources. Plan for escape. Be patient. Act when the Force so bids you," she recited. "And then kick their sorry asses afterward."

He raised a brow. "I don't remember that last bit. Who taught you that part – Master Gallia?"

He could feel Siri's smirk in the Force. "No. That was Master _Tachi."_

* * *

The Force pulsed and gathered between them, endlessly refracted down a mirrored hall. It was a simple younglings' exercise, something learned in the crèche; but only now did they fully realize its worth and importance. Two Jedi were much stronger than two, when they worked in unison, pliant to the Force's guiding and shaping influence.

The wire binding them was tethered to a mooring ring imbedded in the deck – an anchor for securing tarps or crash netting over bulky cargo items. This prevented them from simply yanking their way free of the power outlet; but it did not preclude _cutting_ through their unusual bonds.

Obi Wan's focus was narrow, centered on the task at hand, while Siri's remained wide and grounded deep in the Force, a sail gathering supernal wind. Together, they managed the delicate operation almost effortlessly. The knife tucked inside Obi Wan's left boot – and thankfully overlooked by their captors, who must have searched them in haste and falsely assumed that their 'sabers represented the sum total of weaponry carried on their persons – floated up out of its hiding place, unfolded in mid-air, and gently wafted toward the taut bundle of wire stretched between their bodies and the mooring ring. The blade touched the first wire; a nudge, a harder nudge, a sustained pressure on the fraying coil, and the metallic cord snapped apart.

The two young Jedi exhaled together. Three more strands. The knife turned, descended upon the next piece of wire, pushed, sawed – and severed it.

The bay doors slid open.

"What's this?" a hulking Klatooinian growled, crossing the space in three long strides and making a snatch for the levitating knife, even as the small object flipped neatly out of his grasp and went skidding across the decks out of reach beneath a cargo palette. The newcomer held out a calloused hand; the Force surged; and the knife came obediently sailing out of its cover. Obi Wan scowled, sending the thing veering off in mid-flight. It embedded itself blade-first in the rear bulkhead with a solid _thunk._

Soll Carthag – for it was undoubtedly, undeniably he – leaned over the uncooperative Padawan, and delivered a stunning backhanded blow to his face. Obi Wan's head slammed backward into Siri's skull and she gasped in unison with him.

Carthag yanked the knife out the insulated panel and turned it over thoughtfully in his broad, ridged hand. "Hand-forged. Artisan quality," he grunted. "Very nice." Two swaggering steps brought him back over to his prisoners, the knife clamped loosely in his large fist. "I see you two haven't yet learned to behave."

An invisible wave of power almost knocked the weapon out of his grip again. The Klatooinian's yellow eyes slatted beneath his horned brows. "What was _that_ chissk about?" he asked in a dangerously low tone, shoving the knife into an interior pocket of his filth-encrusted jumpsuit.

"Consider it a warning," Obi Wan replied evenly. "Release us now, or I cannot guarantee your safety."

The killer dropped to one knee before him, nostrils flaring wide. His breath was a hot malediction. "Jedi scum," Carthag smiled, displaying grime-stained teeth "Beg for my forgiveness, or I cannot guarantee _your_ safety."

"Please forgive our mistake," Siri piped up demurely. "….We mistook you for an intelligent being."

Carthag reached a heavily muscled arm around and seized her chin. "Spirit," he leered. "Do you know why I enjoy killing your kind so much? Because you Jedi are all the same – you fight until the last moment, and you die ever so slowly. It's excellent sport. And in your case, pretty, I think I'll take my _bonus_ sooner rather than later."

The threat was no sooner out of his mouth than an explosive Force push sent him careening into the opposite bulkhead. Carthag's horned skull left a dent in the plastoid wall. He bared his teeth and instantly regrouped.

"Protective, are we?" he addressed the other Padawan, with a lecherous chuckle. He lunged forward, thrusting blunt clawed fingers beneath Obi Wan's tunics, exploring freely. "I'm happy to have you instead – I'm not particular that way."

Obi Wan curled backward and brought his feet up into the Klatooinian's gut, hard. Carthag stumbled backward with a curse.

"Touch either of us and you will regret it," Siri growled.

Carthag stood and paced over to the inset control panel by the entrance. His hand strayed softly over the touch pad. "You are both _mine,_ little Jedi," he grinned, flicking the power outlet into life.

His two prisoners screamed aloud as the powerful current sizzled through the wire wrapped about their limbs and necks. They writhed, backs arching rigidly against each other as they cried out in acute pain, tongues of blue fire snapping and curling about their agonized bodies.

After a while, Carthag switched the power off. He moved to crouch beside his panting, violently trembling victims. "Not so smart-mouthed now, are we?" he inquired, casually withdrawing the stolen knife and grasping Siri's thick golden plait in one hand.

"…No!" she gasped, voice breaking in outrage.

"I can take _whatever _ of yours I want," Carthag whispered in her ear, and promptly severed the thick twist of hair with one savage slash. His free hand curled in Obi Wan's short nerf-tail next, and he swiftly cut that off, too.

"The Padawan braids come off after we get to know each other more intimately," he promised.

Obi Wan's response, though unvoiced, must have resounded in the Force, for Carthag kicked him squarely in the gut by way of reply. "You're first," he decided. "She can _watch_ the proceedings."

"Carthag!"

Choollo's curt summons interrupted the polite tête-à-tête.

"What are you doing? We need them _intact_."

The Klatooinian moved away a few paces, sullenly. "They tried to escape, so I subdued them. Here – take these. You'll need these trophies and their weapons to prove we've really got them."

Choollo accepted the proffered items with a long-suffering sigh. "The Ag-Corps comms will be down for a good long while. I made sure of that. I'll deliver the ultimatum in person – Sator is a farmer, not a negotiator. He'll cave easily. You stay here and exert some self control in the meantime. I shouldn't be too long."

"Good," Carthag scoffed. "I'm done with this kriffing dustball."

"_Patience."_

Their voices died away, and the bay doors slammed shut behind them.

Siri made a small choking sound, half whimper, half angry sob.

Obi Wan wrapped his trembling fingers about hers again. "It's all right," he reassured both of them. "Patience. A solution will present itself."

They slowly, shakily centered themselves in the Force once more, breathing in peace and clarity.

"Do you… do you think we will ever see our masters again?" Siri asked, keeping her voice flawlessly level.

Obi Wan shrugged, carefully. "Of course," he asserted. "Though… I have a bad feeling that when we do, they are going to kill us."

They shared a moment of dark mirth, chuckling softly together in the gloom of their cold makeshift prison.


	14. Chapter 14

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**14.**

* * *

"Their comms are down," Adi Gallia remarked, grimly, as she toggled the relay interface yet again. "And the space port is no better."

"Ord Ursolon is subject to violent dust storms," Qui Gon reasoned. "They may have had their transmission equipment knocked out."

The Tholothian Jedi master pressed her lips together. "This is one instance in which I do not think no news is good news."

Sadly, Qui Gon had to agree. He cursed himself for giving Obi Wan permission to investigate the crash site. He cursed himself for not simply taking the Padawan with him, against both the Council's recommendation and his own rational objections. It seemed that _protecting_ his apprentice from potential harm was a sheer impossibility; it might simply be more convenient to keep him close at hand, so as to face the inevitable together.

"I've said it before," Adi grumbled. "Your Padawan attracts trouble."

The tall man refrained from pointing out that Padawan Tachi would by this logic have to categorized as "trouble"; at the moment, he needed Adi's help to navigate whatever crisis lay ahead. "I'll bypass the spaceport and take us directly to the Ag Corps station," he decided. "They can't check our planetary security clearance without comms anyway."

For once Adi Gallia did not comment upon his disregard for standard protocol.

* * *

Soll Carthag was not yet finished tormenting them. The Klatooinian paced around the two captive Padawans, a predatory bird circling on a thermal updraft of his own dark imaginings. "Now we get to see just how attached your Order is to you," he smiled cruelly.

"Jedi do not indulge in attachment," Siri informed him scornfully.

Carthag snorted. "I have seen more than one Jedi master _weep,"_ he sneered. "I have been the one to make this happen. Do not lie to me."

When he received no taunting retort, he continued. "What do you think they will pay for you, little ones? Hm? Your weight in aurodium?"

Obi Wan stirred. "Choollo has you fooled, doesn't he?"

"What do you mean, whelp?"

"I'm not even a Padawan, technically. I was at the Ag-Corps because I lost my place in the Order. He's brought you a worthless hostage."

Carthag halted and narrowed his lamp-like eyes. "You lie."

"I do not. Search your feelings. I am telling you the truth."

The Klatooinian curled his lips upward over his stained teeth, concentrating. His forehead creased into rumpled valleys of tough flesh. He hissed. "You do not lie," he growled. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You're the one who let him deceive you," the young Jedi pressed onward. "How do you know the Agri Corps has no comms? He may have lied about that as well. He may be going to betray you as we speak, leaving you here with useless leverage."

Carthag roared aloud and stomped across the hold, back and forth, two and then three times. Siri nudged against Obi Wan's back. "_What_ do you think you are doing?" she demanded, indignant.

"Negotiating. Hush."

"What about _her?"_ the killer demanded, his attention centering on Siri.

"I'm no prize, either," she replied, quielty. Carthag leaned over her, one rough hand tracing over her jaw and cheekbone, eyes slitted appraisingly. Siri held his sallow gaze without flinching.

"Perhaps," the Klatooinian grunted, straightening. He ground his teeth, a nerve wracking sound. "That _pizzmah _ better not double cross me," he muttered. He cast another calculating glance at the two Padwans and then strode away through the open bay doors again, heading for the cockpit.

"How did you do that?" Obi Wan wondered aloud. "That was an impressive mind trick."

"Not truthfully…I really don't feel worthy of the Order sometimes. A great deal of the time," Siri confessed, in a small, downcast voice. "I'm really no better than you are."

Well, that was… nice. "_Thank you,"_ he snorted. "I'm flattered."

"I didn't mean it like that!"

"Never mind." He – they- were playing a dangerous game. He needed to keep his focus on the present moment, and on the matter of escape. The mystery that was Siri Tachi could wait for a more auspicious occasion, or possibly forever.

* * *

Qui Gon set the Republic light shuttle down in the center of Alepo's dry and brittle lawn, the stretch of hopefully tilled sod between the housing unit and the outlying agri-bubbles. One of the vessel's landing prongs neatly impaled the "Do Not Tread on Grass" sign, reducing it to scattered splinters.

He was not encouraged by the sight of Alepo Sator hurrying from the shelter of the nearest dome to meet them as they descended the ramp.

"Master Jinn! Master Gallia!"

The Jedi masters looked about, sensing the milling activity of more than a hundred extra sentients, the disruption of the Agri-Corps' accustomed routine. "How is the evacuation effort proceeding?" Adi asked the hunch-backed botanist.

He waved a hand at the nearest dome. "A disaster, like all government affairs. Situation normal, all farked up. Our comms are down, as you likely noticed, but I'm expecting your Padawans back any moment with replacement circuits."

A chill raced down Qui Gon's spine. "Where are they now?" he demanded, more sharply than he had intended.

Sator squinted up at him. "Easy," he snapped. "Just off to the crash site. Engineer who was here thought they might be able to salvage enough off the wreck to rig something for us as a temporary solution. Ingenious feller."

"What was his name? What did he look like?" Adi snapped.

Alepo faced her, arms akimbo. "Name of Choollo. Why?'

The Tholothian exchanged a look of sheerest alarm with her fellow Jedi – nothing obvious to an outsider, a mere flicker of cold, dread-filled recognition in the Force. "Chucabra Yollo," she murmured, hand closing about her 'saber hilt. "Let's go now."

"Wait." Qui Gon's raised hand halted her in mid-stride. A small dust cloud billowed on the horizon, gradually resolving into the black silhouette of a landspeeder trailed by a cloud of dust and grit kicked up by its repulsors.

"There they are," Alepo muttered. "About time."

But when the speeder pulled to halt outside the boundaries, they could see that it was not the Padawans returning from their errand. A single figure, short and middle aged, with a jolly lined face and a cropped bush of curling grizzled hair, nipped over the side of the vehicle and approached them at a casual pace. In his hands he bore a small bundle, which looked like the cloth of a Jedi robe.

The Force rippled, a harbinger of ill tidings.

"Yollo," Adi Gallia breathed, as the stranger approached them with all the self-possession of a conquering hero. "What does he want?"

But they already knew the answer.

* * *

Carthag returned to the cargo hold in a state of pronounced agitation.

"I think you're lying," he growled, pointing one clawed digit at Obi Wan. " I've met your type before in gambling dens and swindlers' auctions. You're too suave for your own good."

The young Jedi shrugged nonchalantly. "If you say so."

"I do say so, you oh-so-holy little vetch spawn." He loomed nearer, squatting beside the two prisoners. "And I don't' like liars."

"Yet you keep company with Choollo."

"Enough!" Carthag barked, the stolen knife once more appearing in his thick-fingered hand. "He stands to gain nothing by betraying me."

"That's not true," Obi Wan insisted. "He'll claim to have been coerced by you; and when he goes to report our whereabouts and arrange your capture, he'll be hailed as a hero."

"He's _behind_ this," Carthag objected. "You heard him."

The Padawan raised his brows. "Yes, but I'm not a very useful witness dead, am I?"

The Klatooinian thrust the knife under the Padawans' chin and twisted a little. Obi Wan did not react, even when a hot trickle seeped its way down to his collarbone. "You manipulating little chob-sucker," Carthag snarled, abruptly withdrawing the weapon and standing up. He licked the edge of the blade clean, leering evilly. "If you're lying, I'll cut your tongue out before I get down to business with you ."

He tramped away again, the echo of his muttering curses carrying down the ruined passageway.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Kenobi," Siri whispered.

"So do I," he muttered darkly.

* * *

"This will do nicely," Chucabra Yollo murmured, looking about the dimly lit interior of the bio-lab. He led the way into the small facility and waved a finger at his three companions. "Close the door, there's a good fellow. A little privacy for these delicate negotiations, I think."

Alepo Sator closed the door with a sour expression and leaned his misshapen back against it, features drawn into a scowl of disgust. The two Jedi masters loomed over Yollo menacingly, cloaks thrown back to reveal the saber hilts at their sides. The old genetlemn took little notice.

"Now," he fussed, plopping his bundle upon the polished lab table and carefully unfolding the layers of brown cloth. "As I said, there is no need to _arrest_ me, when I have such important items to show you." He flipped the last fold of cloak aside, to reveal his various trophies.

Adi Gallia reached out and picked up the long plait of golden hair. Her face stilled into a deadly calm. She set it aside and took her apprentice's weapon instead, clipping it at her belt beside her own saber. Qui Gon said nothing.

"Yours, then, I presume," Yollo grinned, fingering the small coil of auburn hair and the other 'saber hilt. "How fortunate that you returned just in time. I was afraid that Director Sator here would have to make all the arrangements… but I'm sure two Jedi masters will have a much easier time fulfilling my requests."

Qui Gon grasped Obi Wan's saber hilt in one hand. "Which are?"

"Twenty –five thousand Republic dataries and your ship. And of course, no attempts to follow or track us once we depart."

"Where are the Padawans?" the tall man inquired softly.

"In good hands. Well, I should say, competent hands. My associate will have them in custody until we can arrange their release."

Adi nodded. "The credits I have with me," she said. "This mission was cllassified top priority."

Qui Gon grimaced. "What are the terms of release?"

Choollo spread his hands thoughtfully. "I am reasonable. One of them – the young lady - to be handed over to you when we leave; the boy to be deposited at a remote location forty standard hours after we depart, _if_ we have not been tracked or impeded. That location will be sent to you by coded transmission later. Standard procedure, I'm sure you understand. A man in my line of business becomes accustomed to treachery."

"We will meet you in person to deliver the ship," Qui Gon countered. "No money until we retrieve the second prisoner."

"Not acceptable," Yollo smiled. "You see, if this meeting does not go well, my associate is authorized to cull the herd, so to speak. One hostage is far more convenient to transport than two. And I daresay a corpse would convince you of our sincerity."

The tall master leaned forward. "That exchange will be made in person, at the site. I hope I need not convince you of _my _sincerity?"

Choollo sneered. "You cannot intimidate me, Jedi. I am familiar with your Code."

"I have a reputation as a… maverick," Qui Gon assured him, dead pan.

A quick glance at Adi Gallia's appalled but sober face seemed to confirm that this was, in fact, true; Choollo hesitated. "Very well," he agreed, at last. "We will take your ship to the crash site. And you will disable the long range transceiver before we depart."

"You are still officially under arrest," Adi warned him.

Choollo made her a mocking bow. "As you say. Now – shall we? My associate is not a patient man, and your apprentice, Master Jinn, is of an exceedingly trying temperament."

"Stay here," Qui Gon instructed Alepo Sator as they left. "This could get complicated."

The horticulturalist nodded grimly and clasped the tall man's arm. "May the Force be with you," he muttered, with a terse but earnest nod.


	15. Chapter 15

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**15.**

* * *

Soll Carthag kept up a steady stream of incoherent ranting under his breath as he made adjustments to the deactivated hunter-killer drones. Their dark, spheroid bodies rested sedately upon the decks, their various lethal appurtenances tucked inside the gleaming curves of their armored carapaces. The Klatooinian muttered and cursed, eyes squinting balefully at his two captives every few seconds as he worked.

Obi Wan's heart skipped a beat; he squeezed Siri's fingers. "They're coming," he whispered.

"I feel it, too."

The Force shuddered with their sudden, giddy relief, and Carthag glanced up suspiciously, sensing their unexpected spurt of elation. "What are you two so happy about?" he hissed, setting the two drones into hover mode.

"Choollo's on his way," Obi Wan boldly asserted. "You're finished. He's bringing reinforcements."

The killer stood, and fiddled with the remote programmer for the droids, his blunt fingers tapping fiercely at the input controls. "They don't have reinforcements at the Agri-Corps," he scoffed. "What are they going to come after me with? Pitchforks and torches?" He snickered loudly, tucking the remote into a pocket.

"He's bringing other Jedi. He must have pre-arranged it," the Padawan continued. "He's hoping you'll kill us – that way the Jedi will have license to kill _you._ It's simple."

Carthag spat on the scuffed floor. "You vaping wretch! Shut your mouth. Besides, Jedi don't _kill_ if they can help it."

"You don't know my former master," Obi Wan told him softly. "He's a monster. That's why I left – I was glad to be expelled. Anything to get away from that madman."

The escaped convict muttered something else and paced to the cockpit again, from which vantage point he had a good view of the surrounding environment, and any approaching ships.

Siri rammed an elbow into her fellow Padawan's side. "What in the name of the Force are you playing at? He's on edge! Do you _want_ him to kill us?"

"I want him off balance."

She jabbed him again. "Would you let our masters handle this? They're on their way – don't ruin our chances of surviving because you're too arrogant to keep your mouth shut and let someone else take the lead."

A hot retort sprang to his lips, but at that moment he felt a distinct presence, a gentle tug at his awareness, beneath sensation and rational thought. Qui Gon. Nearby. He shut out all distractions including the significant one known as Siri Tachi, and felt for the Jedi master through their shared bond.

Qui Gon was an immovable pillar in the Force, a column of gentle, immutable Light, deep wisdom edged with laughter. Obi Wan basked in it. There was a sense of questioning. _Are you all right?_

He conveyed a confident affirmative, and then narrowed his focus, hoping to delineate the hovering droids, the twin threats waiting to be unleashed. He recalled the criminals' conversation, enumerating Carthag's weapons. He summoned an image of the Klatooinian in a state of distrust, of nervous tension, pacing and cursing.

There was a subtle nudge in the Force, an acknowledgment. _Be ready._

Be ready? For what? For some signal? For an attack?

Qui Gon's reassuring presence seemed to surround him for a moment. _Let the Force guide you. _ And then it faded.

* * *

"I'll go in first," Choollo ordered, tramping his way down the hatchway ahead of the two Jedi masters. "You stay here." He waited to be sure his command was obeyed, and then crossed the short distance between the shuttle and the blackened wreck of the passenger liner at a smart clip.

Adi and Qui Gon moved slowly to the ramp's base, the Force shimmering, battle-bright about them. An uneasy coil of darkness slithered through the plenum, an unpredictable element, one that Qui Gon recognized as Soll Carthag's suspicious unrest. Obi Wan had done his job well… perhaps too well. His fingers brushed against the two saber hilts hanging at his side.

Presently, Chucabra Yollo reappeared, a slight frown deepening between his brows. "We have a small problem," he said.

"What do you mean?" Adi Gallia's gaze traveled over his head, to the expanse of forest stretching up the hills beyond.

"Ah. It would appear my associate is not as trusting as I am," Yollo smiled tautly. "He has removed the hostages and made a strategic retreat."

"He'll kill them," Adi said, her deep voice edged with a rare emotion. Then, her saber's blade flaring into sudden life, its pulsing blade reflected in Yollo's startled eyes, "And _you_ are still under arrest."

Qui Gon wheeled, facing the rocky tumble of land behind the crashed ship, the panoply of shadows beneath the forest's silent eaves. "Carthag has seeker probes out here," he said, grimly. "This might be a ploy to lure us away and take the ship. You stay here; I'll go after the Padawans."

Adi's expression tightened into reluctant agreement. "He already has the upper hand, then. Be cautious." And in that recommendation lay embedded a wide gamut of meanings: a caution against anger, a plea for her Padawan's safety, a settling of her iron will into acceptance, into stoic Jedi calm. Qui Gon nodded once, and was off, in pursuit of a desperate killer without remorse or conscience.

The trees seemed to lift their dim mantle to admit him into their realm, where hunter and hunted flitted wraithlike, bloodthirsty, beneath their quiet, watchful vault.

* * *

"We could move faster if we weren't tethered together," Siri complained.

"Shut up," Carthag grunted, loping forward uphill at an alarmingly swift pace, giving the wire leash connected to both their crude collars a savage tug. The two young Jedi nearly stumbled onto their knees, but managed to stay upright and moving, half-dragged along behind the powerful Klatooinian as he ascended the edge of the forested slope. "Try to double cross me, would you, Yollo? We'll se about that." He shifted the flechette rifle slung across his back and withdrew the remote seeker control, punching in a command. "He's dead. And your Jedi masters are dead, too. Nobody beats me at my own game."

He clambered up a rocky promontory and stopped at the summit, overlooking a sharp drop into a valley riverbed below. Panting, Siri shot a sharp look at her companion. Obi Wan shook his head. Not yet. They were at a disadvantage; Carthag was heavily armed; they did not know in which direction help lay. Patience.

Siri's jaw clenched a little, the set of her shoulders declaring that she was spoiling for a fight. "You're going to be the death of me, you know."

"Don't say that." The Force drew nigh, the future breathing down his neck, its shadow dimming his inner vision. Death loomed over the horizon, coming for him, or for her, or for all of them, His heart beat to the slow dirge of its advent, to the Force's merciless bidding.

"Are you all right?'

"No!" He hadn't meant to snap at her, but she barely noticed, so accustomed had they grown to each other's tempers. There was a cold comfort in that fact, one he could not spare any attention or time to brood upon.

Carthag was staring at them speculatively. "Someone's coming after you," he rumbled. "I can feel him."

"You should release us and surrender," Obi Wan suggested. "You've no hope of surviving this. It's Master Jinn. I already told you, he's a lunatic."

Carthag squinted at him, grinding his teeth. "You _talk too much!"_ the Klatooinian cursed, thrusting an angry fist in the air. "Shut up!"

The Padawan opened his mouth again, but Siri Tachi swiftly yanked upon the loop of wire binding them together. "_Shut up,"_ she hissed.

The Klatooinian hauled them in , hand over hand, until he had a clawed fist tight under each of their collars. His breath wafted, hot and reeking, over their faces. His tongue was a purple serpent flicking behind the ramparts of his teeth. "There is more than one lunatic loose in this forest," he warned them. 'I only need one of you as a bargaining chip. Let's play the _quiet _game. Whoever talks first is the one I dump. Understood?"

Siri nodded mutely, blue eyes aflame with rebellion, but prudence holding her tongue.

Carthag leaned in closer to Obi Wan, tightening his grip on the wire coils until the Padawan could barely breathe. "I have a feeling it's going to be _you,_ chatterbox. I look forward to it."

The young Jedi sucked in a sharp breath, baring his teeth at their captor, but Siri's swift kick to his shin prevented any further vocal exercise of his wit. The Klatooinian dropped them both heavily to the ground.

"Get up," he grunted, tersely. "We'll head for higher ground," He accented this order with a sharp jerk on the wire leashes, pulling them roughly forward again. "The forest is thicker up there. We'll find a nice secluded spot where I can leave a _message_ for your lunatic friend." He bared his ragged line of teeth and dragged them onward, up the rock-strewn footpath toward the more established forest.

The two young Jedi exchanged a fleeting glance, one in which hope and determination blended in equal measure. Their chance – their sole opportunity to make a bid for freedom – lay ahead. They would be ready.

Stumbling, awkwardly tangled together, they followed the insane convict up the hill toward Alepo's buried security sensor perimeter.

* * *

Qui Gon needed no trail or tracking scent. Images flashed across his mind, carried on the churning Force across his bond with Obi Wan: some fragmented, others blurred by bursts of emotion, but most of them crystal clear – a testament to the young Jedi's discipline and powers of observation. The tall man smiled grimly. There was nothing like extreme adversity to teach the value of maintaining a calm and centered focus.

He moved swiftly in the frigid mountain air, the cold swell in his lungs smothering some of the invisible fire thrilling in his every nerve. Each step brought him closer to the Padawans and Carthag; he could almost imagine that the danger diminished as he closed the gap between them, as though his mere presence would dissolve the horrible tension into a cloud of explosive retribution.

He breathed out, slowly, releasing anger in a stream of white vapor. _Calm and centered focus, Jinn,_ he silently reprimanded himself. _Take your apprentice's example,_ he added wryly.

In the ensuing silence, a second presence, a mere subliminal tapping at his awareness, made itself felt. The Force rippled, ever so delicately…

…and he twisted sideways, ducking beneath an energy blast that sent tree bark and hot ash spraying through the air.

Qui Gon's saber blade leapt from its hilt, intercepting the next three shots in an elegant comet-tail of sweeping green flame. A sphereical seeker-killer droid thrummed closer, dodging and weaving deftly among the tree trunks, erratically shifting its altitude and half-rotating in place, firing off warning shots in a random sequence to hold him at bay. The Jedi master moved with his foe, sliding between the forest's stately columns, slipping between shafts of verdant light and mottled shadow, eluding the hunter in a fluid dance, inviting it closer even as he seemed to retreat, luring it into saber range.

The thing dropped, and let loose another volley, one he almost missed because it was so lethally silent. Dark, solid projectiles winged their way toward him, a continuous streaming swarm of thin darts.

His 'saber caught most of them. A few escaped beneath his hasty guard, burying themselves in his cloak hem and the thick nerfhide of his boots. The droid charged forward, aiming an explosive cannon blast at the fallen log upon which the Jedi crouched. He leapt forward as the explosion scattered burning debris in all direction, deflected more shots in midair and slammed his blade into the killer's round body on his downstroke, landing neatly in the underbrush behind it.

The probe fell heavily to the mossy forest floor, sparking where it lay. Qui Gon flourished his blade and severed it in two for good measure.

And then he felt it: a wild spurt of desperate energy, a jolt in the Force that sent a vicarious flood of adrenaline rushing through his own veins.

"Obi Wan," he hissed, pelting uphill toward the still too-distant source of the disturbance.


	16. Chapter 16

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**16.**

* * *

Soll Carthag's left foot crossed the buried magneto-line first; a heartbeat later, the security system was triggered, a white sheet of lightning sizzling for a long instant in the air above the boundary, a wall of electric fire intended to stun trespassers.

Carthag toppled over heavily onto the far side, inadvertently pulling his captives across the perimeter in his wake. A second flash of energy snapped in the chill air; Obi Wan and Siri leapt through as one, landing tangled together on the opposite side, legs dead and numb, muscles convulsively shaking.

"Quick," Obi Wan panted, rolling over, scrabbling at the Klatooinian's inert form. "My knife." His hands, still bound behind his back, fumbled clumsily in the killer's jumpsuit pockets, searching for the small weapon.

Siri rolled into a ball, groaning. "Stars end…!" She clutched at her solar plexus.

"Got it." Obi Wan wriggled forward. "Siri. Hold still.' Cutting their way free of the restricting wire was an agonizing process; Carthag stirred, and moaned. Obi Wan tugged and pulled, bloodying his own wrists as he yanked desperately free of the tight cords. Fingers slick with red liquid, he set to carving through the wire about Siri's wrists, the collar digging into the white skin of her neck. A bright red welt surrounded her throat. He cast aside the fraying wire, tugged Carthag's rifle out of his slack hands, found the pouch of grenades, tossed these aside too.

"We have to subdue him."

Siri struggled to regain her feet. "I can't stand," she hissed. "Kenobi – he's going to wake up any second. Go!"

"Not without you. Help me tie him up –"

But it was too late. The Klatooinian sprang back into awareness, making a sudden lunging grab at Siri, felling her atop himself. She struggled, her unresponsive legs refusing to cooperate. She threw two swift punches at his face and was rewarded with a violent slap across her own jaw and a Force–push that sent her tumbling against a nearby tree.

Obi Wan crouched for a spring; Carthag lurched to his feet drunkenly. Rocks lifted from their places in the earth, and sailed through the air, careening toward the two combatants. Obi Wan ducked, threw another projectile at Carthag, slithered backward as the Klatooinian rushed him. He slashed downward at the killer's arm as they closed, kicked the heavy Klatooinian off himself, and grunted in pain as a hard fist buried itself beneath his ribs. He rolled over winded, and then rolled again to avoid another crushing blow.

Carthag summoned his rifle into one hand; Obi Wan caught its barrel with a roundhouse kick and flipped away, toward Siri, roughly hauling her upright.

"Come on!"

Teeth gritted, eyes bright with pain, she wheezed a hissing negative. "I … can't… just go.."

Carthag leveled the flechette rifle at them both; the Force screamed in warning; and Siri Tachi slewed round, slamming Obi Wan against the rough bark of the tree, screening him with her own body.

Twenty razor sharp projectiles sliced through her tunics, embedded themselves in her belly and sides. Obi Wan shouted out with her, went down beneath the weight of her sinking body, gasped as a surge of hot protective wrath choked off his voice. He held out a hand, closing his fingers in a fist; Carthag's rifle barrel collapsed beneath the crushing pressure of an invisible fist. The weapon backfired, exploding, sending the Klatooinian tumbling backward with an enraged curse.

Siri clutched at the crimson pool spreading along her front. "Go," she whispered. "You chosski."

To stay would be to condemn her to certain death; to leave would be to abandon her to the Force. He wavered, and then dashed away, snarling at Carthag as the furious madman made a snatch for him, crying out his desperate resolve into the Force. The Klatooinian was after him in an instant, pounding up the steep incline in hot pursuit, leaving Siri to her fate, hellbent on catching his other quarry.

Obi Wan ran flat out, bounding over twisted roots, dodging among the tree trunks, slithering over jutting boulders, evading projectiles. A small sphere sailed by his head, and on sheerest blind instinct he leapt as far forward as he could, feeling the disruptor's shock wave before he heard the sonic disturbance. He was jolted out of midair by its explosion. Shards of stone and the dust of mighty trees showered round him, a deadly hail. Sharp fragments sliced at his skin, pelted his back and shoulders.

He picked himself up and kept running, drawing Carthag further toward the place… the cliffside,… madly formulating a plan, the shadow of a plan, the merest desperate hope of a plan, pulse racing, breath heaving, reaching out through the stained and shredded Force toward Qui Gon, sending both apology and determination, assurance that he would die like a Jedi, fighting to the last.

And Carthag pursued, relentless.

* * *

Qui Gon thundered into the small clearing, a minute too late.

Horrified, he dropped to one knee beside the small crumpled form hunched at the base of the tree. His hands gently shifted Siri Tach's weight. Her eyelids flickered open.

"Master… Jinn,' the wounded Padawan muttered. Her skin was a deathly grey.

Heart skipping, he waved a hand over her bloody sides. The thin flechettes pulled loose, scattered in the fallen leaves beneath them. Siri cried out, weakly. "Hush," he told her, pressing hands against the sopping, dark-dyed cloth of her tunics, channeling the Force's healing power into the injuries, counting the precious seconds and minutes as they trickled away, Obi Wan's danger increasing with every heartbeat. But this took precedent; this was the Force's first command.

Siri went limp in his arms, fainting. He pressed his lips together, felt for her thready pulse. He pulled bacta and an insufficient pressure patch out of his belt pouch, applied them with a haste and efficiency which made him glad the Padawan was unconscious, and then stood. There was nothing more he could do.

He centered himself in the Force, banishing his own fear to the edges of awareness where it smoldered, dark embers of panic gnawing at his self possession. And he ran.

* * *

Obi Wan skidded to the edge of the forest, where the cover of the trees failed him and the hillside fell away into the barren ravine below. Snow frosted the rocky heights above. The air was chill, and damp with coming rain. Even the sky darkened, glowering at him, chanting a silent condemnation. The future rolled within the distant thunder, drummed behind his temples. Death. Nearer. Nearer.

Carthag's heavy footfalls echoed among the trees, his silhouette rising up out of the gloom like an avenging ghost. Obi Wan backed away, cold and calculating detachment claiming him. Death would not take him without a fight. He set himself in a ready stance, facing the threat squarely, summoning the Force to his aid, feeling the swelling current of destiny rise up, a dark wave ready to crash down over him.

Carthag burst from the cover of the trees.

Obi Wan felt something coil about his ankle.

No! He glanced down, horrified, and saw the other tendrils snaking their way toward him, eager now, writhing as they slithered across the gritty soil, wrapping around knees, waist, his left arm.

Carthag's eyes widened. Obi Wan struggled, violently, slashing at the blasted thing with his knife. A thick tentacle closed about his wrist, snapping the weapon out of his grip. Another curled about his chest, two more about his waist. He shouted at the thing, grasped at the blearing Force, tried to throw it off, but more and more tendrils assaulted him, until he was bound in a cocoon of smothering green, falling to the earth, dragged down beneath their constricting weight.

Carthag leered, and idly tossed another disruptor grenade. It hit the gorund, rolled, and stopped a meter from the captive Padawan.

"_No!"_ Obi Wan kicked and fought with savage strength, resisting the inexorable pull of the tentacles. They closed round him, covering even his face, cutting off the world and life and hope…. The last thing he saw was a thin suckered tendril reach out to grasp the small ticking spheroid, hoist it into the air, and then pop the morsel into the plant's gaping mouth.

He was shoved face-first into the earth by a crushing mass of green. And then came the shock wave. And then the sonic disruption. His prison erupted into a diaspora of particles, splattered green sap and sticky shreds blown sky-high, strewn in a ten-meter radius. He gasped – shocked, appalled, giddy with relief – and sprang to his unsteady feet amid the blackened ruins of the plant.

Carthag howled in disbelief and hefted two more grenades.

A figure appeared at the forest's edge, Light rippling about its edges, a fury equal to Carthag's rising within the tumultuous Force.

"Obi Wan!"

A disruptor sailed in a long arc toward Qui Gon, hurled by the killer; a glittering cylinder curved through the air toward Obi Wan, tracing a high parabola over Carthag's head. The second grenade skittered over the earth in the Padawan's direction. He leapt, Force-propelled, upward, intercepting his 'saber in mid-air, a melting fire burning in his veins, the command of Light, the weight of past deeds descending with him, like blue lightning, as he twisted, blade screaming, flashing, and severing Carthag's head from his body in one perfect stroke even as the twin grenades detonated, blasting gaping craters in the hillside, sending up choking clouds of disintegrated rock and wood.

Obi Wan's boots hit the soft earth; Carthag's decapitated body slumped to the ground in slow surrender to death; and the clouds let loose their tears, pouring down cold approbation upon the scene, dancing in coils of steam along the thrumming 'saber's edge.

Qui Gon sloughed through the driving rain, the rubble and dust, to stand just behind his Padawan. Gently, he reached down and covered the young Jedi's sword-hand with his own, thumbing the activation switch. The blue blade hissed back into its hilt, leaving them in a stunned silence while the torrential rain spattered about them, soaking them through. The tall man gripped his apprentice's shoulders tightly, feeling the slight tremble of overtaxed muscles beneath the damp cloth. Carthag's head lolled at Obi Wan's feet, the grisly face upturned in a wide leer of surprise, as though destruction had caught him off guard, at a loss. Rain water pooled in rivulets and trickled along the ridges and scales of the grotesque features, filling the glassy eye sockets and over-spilling in endless weeping trails.

* * *

Adi ran to meet them as they made their way back down the slope, Qui Gon carrying Siri in his arms, Obi Wan half-stumbling behind. The rain had lightened to a melancholy drizzle.

"Padawan!"

"She'll be all right," Qui Gon assured the Tholothian. "Where is Yollo?"

Adi half turned, holding out an arm in the direction of the Republic shuttle sitting a short distance away. At the foot of its boarding ramp, the mangled remains of a second seeker droid lay scattered at the feet of a cowering Chucabra Yollo, guarded over at blaster point by the redoubtable Alepo Sator. "He made a run for it while I was occupied with the probe unit," she explained. "Unfortunately, he _ran_ straight into Director Sator, who nearly _ran_ into him with his landspeeder."

Alepo grinned. "I knew you Jedi couldn't handle this on yer own."

The two masters exchanged an arch look. Adi laid hand against Siri's pale face. "The evacuation team has finally arrived. They brought medics – let's take her back to base."

Qui Gon nodded, waiting for Obi Wan to catch up.

"Carthag?" Adi asked as they hurriedly ascended the ramp.

"Dead," the tall man answered, succinctly, casting a sideways glance at her, one which prevented any further inquiry.

He hastened onward into the tiny passenger hold, an exhausted Obi Wan on his heels. Alepo nudged their prisoner into the ship, and Adi followed last of all, grimly closing the hatch behind them.

Somewhere on the ruined hillside, Soll Carthag's corpse continued to stare unseeing at the weeping sky. And only the plaintive carrion birds overhead cried a shrill lament for his passing.


	17. Chapter 17

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**17.**

* * *

"Stay here, Obi Wan." Qui Gon held up a warning finger, effectively freezing his Padawan in place. The young Jedi's grave expression deepened into a silent rebuke which the older man ignored. "I'll send a medic your way in a moment."

He lingered another moment to be sure his admonition would be obeyed, and then strode away down the housing unit's drab hall. He found Adi in a small room at the end of the corridor. The Tholothian had laid aside her cloak, and even her headdress. Without the ornamented head covering, Adi Gallia appeared more delicate, the first scattering of grey appearing among the close-cropped curls of her dark hair, her well-carved features drawn into subtle lines of concern. She crouched, eyes closed, beside her Padawan, tending to the young woman's hurts. One of the Ord Fromag medics waited patiently beside her, a curious if stultified look stamped upon his face.

Eventually, Adi opened her eyes, perhaps sensing Qui Gon's patient presence in the doorframe. She stood, drawing the coverlet up over Siri's still form.

"How is she?"

Adi brushed a hand over her apprentice's forehead and nodded to the medic, relinquishing her role and steeping deliberately back. "She will recover. Thank the Force, none of the flechettes penetrated too deeply. But she has lost a great deal of blood. If you had not found her, Qui Gon…" she left the thought trailing, lapsing into a grim silence.

He inclined his head. "It was the will of the Force. I am grateful that both of them survived the ordeal. Carthag might have done much worse to them. He must have been very off-balance to have fled the rendezvous in the first place."

Adi solemn visage was lightened by a small smile. "I am grateful as well. Your Padawan acquitted himself well; perhaps I was mistaken in regard to his worthiness."

It was an understated retraction, but Qui Gon understood its sincerity, and its extension to include himself. He bowed.

"And was Obi Wan injured?"

The tall Jedi master hesitated. "Nothing serious, I think," he answered. "But… we must discuss Carthag's death later."

Adi 's shocking blue eyes softened. "Yes," she sighed. "That time comes for all of us. You will be a wise counselor," she added, laying a hand upon his arm. "May the Force be with you, Qui Gon."

He sighed, and intercepted the medic on his way out, escorting the harried man back down the hallway to the room where Obi Wan reluctantly awaited his attentions. The time had indeed come, and there was nothing he could do to unmake the cold forging of destiny that had been wrought upon Ord Ursolon's lonely hillside.

* * *

Qui Gon took the incoming transmission in the comm center. The newly repaired signal amplifiers provided him with a far superior holo-image to that previously generated by Alepo's outdated equipment. Jedi Master Even Piell appeared over the plate in shimmering blue effigy.

"Yollo vas incarcerated in the Illixi Detention center this morning," he informed Qui Gon. "Dat vas good vork. And I von't pretend I'm sorry to hear that Carthag vas slain."

Qui Gon's mouth thinned, in grudging agreement. He might have wished that the circumstances of the killer's demise had been different; but it was not his to dictate the destiny of any other being, or even his own.

"Vell, dat's the last of those wretches," the diminutive master grunted. "Vat a vild bantha chase. Next time, I'm going to volunteer somebody else for the grunt-vork."

"Somebody else?" Qui Gon inquired innocently. "Master Gallia and I have had our share of troubles, I assure you."

Even Piell snorted, his black topknot swishing against his long, pointed ears. His one good eye squinted balefully at his interlocutor. "Don't tempt me, Qvi Gon. Ven are you and dat boy of yours coming home to the Temple? I'm running out of decent sparring partners."

"So soon as you can arrange transport for us," Qui Gon replied. "I think the Council will agree that our term of service here is ended."

"For vonce, ve are all in agreement vit you. Ve'll send a courier to the spaceport out there as soon as possible. By the vay, I read your Padavan's preliminary report."

The tall man nodded, warily.

But Even Piell was in a light and teasing mood. "Tell Obi Van dat next time he gets in trouble, I vant to personally oversee the conseqvences."

Qui Gon managed a thin smile. "That should intimidate him into conformity for some length of time."

"I doubt it,' Piell scoffed. His scarred face sobered, and he added, "And tell dat boy he'll be fine."

"I'm confident he will, and I'll convey your message," Qui Gon promised.

"Good." The tiny Jedi master bowed. "May the Force be vit you." And he was gone, leaving Qui Gon among the glimmering consoles of the control center. With a deep breath, he rose and went to help Adi coordinate the remaining evacuation effort.

* * *

It took the Agri-Corps staff and the Jedi much longer than anticipated to make certain that every last one of the crashed liner's passengers was safely stowed aboard the evacuation ship and had clear instructions for continuing their various journeys homeward from Ord Fromag. When the stragglers had been loaded up and the emergency crew closed the boarding ramp at long last, Alepo Sator heaved a hearty sigh of relief.

"All's well that ends well," he chuffed. "You Jedi are more trouble than yer worth. I'll not be taking any more of these disciplinary interns again in a hot hurry."

Qui Gon brushed off his rant with a small shrug. "We come to serve."

The horticulturalist wagged a knowing finger at him, chuckling darkly, and huffed away toward the main Agri-dome to tend his orchards in peace.

The two Jedi masters were left alone in the cold afternoon air outside the protective bubbles. Siri remained resting inside the housing unit, rebuilding her strength; Obi Wan had begun the traditional meditative vigil observed after the occasion of a first kill. Qui Gon felt for his Padawan along their bond, and sensed a relative quiescence; unwilling to disturb the young Jedi's focus, he withdrew, studying the bleak horizon, where the hills etched a ragged line across the cold sky.

Adi seemed to follow both his steps and his straying thoughts as they both folded their hands into their robe sleeves and proceeded toward the Agri-Corps buildings at a slow and contemplative stroll. "Siri has related to me how they managed to convince Carthag that he was going to be betrayed by Chucabra Yollo," Adi told him. "Did your Padawan tell you the details?"

"No," Qui Gon replied. "He merely said that he played upon Carthag's insecurities until we arrived. I did not press for more specific information."

The Tholothian raised her chin a trifle and smiled, keeping her gaze straight ahead. "Well," she said, "Apparently you, Jinn, are a raving lunatic and an unpredictable madman, one whom even Soll Carthag would do well to avoid."

Qui Gon stopped. "Obi Wan said that?"

Adi, a master diplomat, kept a straight face and kept walking. But the Force conveyed her ironic amusement. "He's very imaginative. I believe _monster_ was the exact phrase Siri remembers."

He caught up to her again in three long ground-eating strides. "Monster."

"Indeed." They reached the curving outside wall of the nearest dome. "After you, Master Jinn."

They parted ways inside the protective curve of the shelter, Adi's shapely lips curving upward at the corners, Qui Gon's eyes twinkling with humorous affront as he made a direct line toward his highly imaginative protégé.

* * *

Obi Wan had chosen the smallest greenhouse – one stationed on the outskirt of the Agri-corps facility, a seldom-used dome housing nothing but several shelving units full of potting materials and seeds. The floor had once been paved in an intricate labyrinthine pattern, now cracked and overgrown by a tenacious moss. The floor did bear some resemblace to the tilework gracing much of the Temple; perhaps this was the motive behind the Padawan's choice; or perhaps he had retreated here because of the dome's remote location and privacy.

Qui Gon did not intrude immediately; he paused upon the threshold, touching the boy's mind gently through the Force.

Obi Wan turned, still kneeling in the center of the quiet space. The Jedi master moved forward and lowered himself to the hard floor beside him. He sensed the exhausted calm after a tumultuous storm, the dwindling clouds of grief and shock rolling away over inner horizons. A tenuous light played over the surface of the eddying Force, a ray of peace and acceptance smoothing away dread and horror. The young Jedi looked a bit wan, and great weariness edged his presence, but in his eyes there was a new calm, a gravity anchoring him deep in the Force's wisdom, a new ballast steadying his last tottering steps out of childhood.

"Carthag was a monster," he said, abruptly, breaking the silence.

"Yes."

Obi Wan's hands relaxed minutely, where they rested upon his knees. "But he was also a living being. A sentient with free will and understanding."

Qui Gon nodded. "True."

The Padawan inhaled deeply. "I killed him, master."

There. The words had been uttered, the truth accepted. "Yes." Qui Gon offered no condemnation, nor false comfort. This was a trial faced alone, even in the midst of a great company, all those who had gone before, the bearers of a double-edged blade, a tradition of peace bought at great price.

"It was the will of the Force," Obi Wan continued,. "…But I still chose it."

They were silent, standing together at the edge of an awful mystery, where the ocean of hidden purpose and intertwined meanings lapped against the shores of their limited, mortal understanding. An ethereal wind coursed around them, through them. They breathed, in unison, feeling the pulse of this invisible tide ebb and flow within their own hearts, their very blood. They were Jedi; and this was the nature of their willing submission.

"Master?'

Qui Gon felt the question take form within his own thoughts; and when he spoke, it was that same primordial ocean of light that answered through him. "What gives you the right?" he said softly. "Nothing. You have no right. It is the Force which deals out life and death. It will someday claim your life as well, and you will relinquish it as willingly as you obeyed its command to take Carthag's. .. and perhaps others', in the future. This is our path."

"But what I am not worthy of that path? Then… my actions would be reprehensible. No better than his."

"You will _be_ worthy, then. The alternative is unacceptable."

"And there is no turning back," Obi Wan ended.

There was not. This was a bridge which could be crossed but once, and past which there was no possibility of retreat. He waited, silently, as Obi Wan unclipped his 'saber and held it reverently in two hands, frowning over its sleek, elegant lines as though seeing the weapon for the first time. At last, he solemnly retuned it to its place, face stilling into a grave resolve.

"I understand," the young Jedi said in a rough voice, the last buoyant minutes and seconds of childhood evaporating, dissolving into thin air, into light, even as the tall man watched, helpless to intervene even if he had so willed.

In the end, they were left in the close confines of the half-sphere, both together and each alone, the Force's painful mercy winnowing future from past, wisdom from innocence, man from Jedi. And none disturbed their quiet vigil, nor observed whether either or both of them wept.

* * *

Qui Gon finished twisting the strands of hair together, weaving the record of their shared history, replacing the markers one at a time until he came to the end of the thin plait. Here, he wrapped a black thread three times around the braid, signifying the first taking of a sentient life by free volition, for the cause of peace, without hatred. He tied off the last marker and smoothed the tuft of auburn beneath it, allowing the braid to drop into place over Obi Wan's shoulder.

"We are done here," he murmured.


	18. Chapter 18

**Lineage IV**

* * *

**18**

* * *

"We're leaving in less than an hour… Master Gallia is making final adjustments to the flight log. We've been assigned to another mission already – something diplomatic, not as dangerous as the Agri-Corps." Siri Tachi stopped rambling and paused, biting her lower lip.

Obi Wan found that he was sorry to see her go; almost as sorry as he had been to see her come. It was an odd feeling, certainly unexpected. But it was a feeling nonetheless, the first to manifest itself in his benumbed psyche since the death of Soll Carthag. And that merited celebration, he supposed. "Well, then. Come and see the mandrangea beans one last time before you go," he offered, hospitably.

Her brows rose. "The mandrangea beans?"

There was nobody else in the Agri-bubble, most the staff being occupied with cleaning up the evacuation area or working at the reforestation preserve. On impulse, he seized Siri's hand and led her swiftly along the central aisle between Alepo's orchards and the neat rows of freshly tilled vegetable beds, past the composter and the potting shed, to the wide arbor of bean shoots, draped along their high trellises. "They're in flower. Look."

Siri brushed the very short strands of her hair behind one ear, but they fell forward again. She sighed. "They are beautiful," she admitted, bemused.

"Even better from the inside," he told her, pulling her along beneath two of the adjacent rows, until they were enclosed in a long, narrow fortress, a cathedral of twining green vines and delicately ridged leaves, a sanctuary in which the loamy earth was kissed by soft green light, and white petals dropped, floating slowly in the still air, a rainfall of silent perfumed snow. The Force chimed gently, as full and still as the hush beneath the green roof. He rolled onto his back upon the rich soil bed, and Siri flopped down beside him. They gazed at the fretted ceiling, the gold-green kaleidoscope of light, and laughed when the bean-blossoms rained down upon their faces, one at a time, in slow procession.

"It's marvelous."

"Much better than flying."

"I like flying," Siri protested.

"_I_ don't."

They tucked their hands behind their heads and floated in the Living Force, adrift with the soft petals, the dust motes coiling on the warm air.

"Part of me doesn't want to leave," Obi Wan said after a while. "Even though I hated it here when we first arrived."

"You _have_ to leave," Siri replied, solemnly. "You're going to be a great Jedi. I … I'm sorry for all the horrible things I said to you. Earlier. Before."

Before. Yes, existence did seem bifurcated into before and after. Before Carthag. After his death. After _killing_ him. Obi Wan swallowed. He had no choice but to embrace the after. There was no going back. He was a killer now… and a Jedi.

"It's all right" he answered, hoarsely. "Some of it was true. And the rest I dismissed as the ravings of quite justifiable envy."

She snorted. "You barve." But there was no real sting in the words.

"By the way…. not that it matters of course… but I think the short hair suits you very well."

Siri smiled a little then, and turned her face toward him. Her shorn tresses spilled around it, a soft platinum halo. "Thanks. Not that I care."

"No, of course not."

A beat. "And bantha poodoo suits you very well, too," Siri added.

His mouth twitched at the corners, and he tried to suppress the tugging smile, but she likely saw it in his eyes anyway. They looked at each other, and in the simple shelter of that green place, it was possible to call each other _friend._ Something loosened and shifted almost imperceptibly within the unifying Force, a subtle tectonic sliding. Obi Wan felt it; Siri did not seem to notice. He shrugged the moment away, for the quiet and the scent of mandrangea blossoms were a far more enticing subject of attention. And the company was – surprisingly – good.

They stayed a while longer, wrapped in their own thoughts, but glad to share the fleeting moment of peace with one another, until both comlinks simultaneously shattered their fragile repose.

Siri sighed, and sat up. "We're needed. And I have to go."

So they left, bidding the drifting flowers and each other a swift farewell.

* * *

The next morning, Qui Gon borrowed Alepo's battered landspeeder, with the intention of making one final trip up to the reforestation site.

"You said that I would love it up here," he remarked to his unusually subdued apprentice, "And yet now you are in a dour frame of mind. Why so out of sorts, my Padawan?"

Obi Wan pretended absorbing interest in the flashing scenery as they ascended the hill at an economical pace. His fingers drummed along the passenger side panel. "Ah… there's something I need to tell you," he began. "Regarding the plant. The one you left in my care."

The tall Jedi master raised his brows. "I was wondering where our friend had got to. I assumed you transplanted it into one of Alepo's domes; in which case you are to be commended for your powers of persuasion. He was dead set against the notion when I suggested it."

"Not exactly, master. That is, I _did_ transplant it. It was getting to be a nuisance at night."

"And where exactly did you find it a happy home?" Qui Gon spared a suspicious sidelong glance at his apprentice.

"On the boundary of the ecopreserve," Obi Wan muttered. "Just up ahead. Where we ... where I fought Carthag." He pointed vaguely along the swell of rocky land rising at the foothill's edge, where the more established forest grew near the tumbling cliffs of a river valley. "It was a pretty site – I thought you would approve."

The Jedi master permitted himself a bemused smile. "I see. Why do I sense a tragic ending to this tale?"

Obi Wan winced a little. "During the battle with Carthag…just before you arrived... Well. The plant was destroyed. I don't htink you noticed at the time."

"Ah. My attention _was_ otherwise occupied. Distracted, you might even say." They sped onward in silence for a while, Qui Gon ruminating on this sad revelation and Obi Wan maintaining a shamed silence in the passenger seat. Eventually, with a few wordless directions from his Padawan, the Jedi master located the site of the disaster. They clambered over the sides of their vehicle and stood surveying the gruesome remains of the tentacled creature, now curling into blackened and rotting piles in a ten meter radius about the small crater where the stalk had once been.

Qui Gon cocked a severe eyebrow, indicating the mess with the sweep of one hand. "So this is what happens when I leave you in charge of a pathetic life form? You have much to learn of the Living Force, indeed."

If possible, ObI Wan looked more miserable than he had in the Council chambers when he had been officially censured and sent to the Agri-Corps in the first place.

"I'm _truly_ sorry, master," he mumbled after a heavy pause. "It died as a Jedi, though."

Qui Gon passed a hand over his face, concealing the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Indeed?"

"Yes," his apprentice informed him mournfully. "It actually saved my life. It _swallowed _a disruptor grenade." A glint of black humor surfaced in the ocean of remorse. "I suppose we could give it a proper funeral, if it would make you feel any better."

The tall man could no longer suppress his chuckle. The soft expression of mirth both startled and confused his apprentice, who watched in dismay as Qui Gon knelt on the edge of the crater and thrust both hands deep into the blackened soil of its pit. After a few minutes digging and searching, the Jedi master grunted happily and pulled up a small, round bulb, straggling roots and clinging bits of dirt pendant from its thick base. "Here we are."

Obi Wan merely blinked, frowning deeply, as though contemplating one of Chakora Seva's philosophical paradoxes.

"You have much to learn," Qui Gon smiled. "This creature is a perennial. Its life energy is contained in this bulb – I'm sure it can be coaxed into blooming again next season… so long as we keep it safely away from _you."_

The Padawan's mouth opened and then shut, and then opened again. "So it's not dead," he concluded, helplessly.

Qui Gon's satisfied grin was as smug as a mynock inside a power converter. "There is no death, my young apprentice." He tucked the root bulb into an inside pocket of his cloak and patted it.

"You're _not_ taking that back to the Temple with us!" the young Jedi objected.

"Why not?' Qui Gon turned a slow circle, savoring the majestic sweep of treeline and rock, tumbling waterfall and cloud-strewn skies. He breathed deeply. "Master Pertha will be exceedingly pleased to add it to his collection in the outdoor gardens, and Master Yoda can threaten the more obstreperous younglings with it."

"No, master… not _again."_

"Admit it, Obi Wan. You would have been far better behaved in the crèche had you known _this_ oddity was lurking just outside the Temple walls, ready to consume any malefactors."

"I was perfectly well behaved in the crèche," his protégé snorted indignantly.

"That is _not _ the accurate historical account I have heard, nor is it relevant to my point. Come." He grasped his student by one shoulder and shepherded him back toward the speeder. "This spot was well chosen, but let us see the rest of the preserve."

Obi Wan sighed, and then surrendered to the inevitable and allowed Qui Gon to lead the way back to their rickety conveyance. Some battles could, after all, be left to those with more wisdom and experience. And if Master Qui Gon lacked sufficient foresight to anticipate what Master _Windu_ might say about the newest import, then it merely demonstrated that the revered and roguish master still had much to learn about the unifying Force.

"Shall we?" Qui Gon asked politely when they had climbed back in.

"Yes, master," he responded with what he considered a very fair approximation of meek acceptance.

* * *

"That's it, eh?' Alepo Sator chuffed, his grimy hands splayed upon his hips, his dirty work apron dusty and stained from the morning's endeavors. "You just get the hang of things 'round here and now you're gallivanting off on your own errands again?"

Obi Wan bowed to the curmudgeonly director. "I am indebted to you for the last six weeks," he assured the hunch-backed botanist. "They were most instructive. And…I have gained a new appreciation of the mandrangea bean's versatility."

Sator squinted at him. "Good honest work hasn't blunted yer wit, I see. Pity. Still," he shrugged, turning to Qui Gon, "Better you than me. He tries hard but he isn't cut out for a farmer. Too fidgety."

The Jedi master inclined his head. "Fidgety?" He studied his apprentice carefully. "We shall have to work on that defect, Obi Wan."

The Padawan stifled a groan. "Maybe I'll stay another six weeks after all," he muttered, sotto voce.

"I think not," Qui Gon corrected him. "Ben To is anxious to see you in person. He will not believe my assertion that you are hale and hearty until he has an opportunity to make his own empirical confirmation."

"Lovely."

"I think we can work on restlessness and _habitual sarcasm_ at the same time," Qui Gon mused quietly, still contemplating his student. "Perhaps we can even uproot both vices entirely by the time we arrive on Coruscant."

Obi Wan swallowed down his vociferous objection and settled for silent and mutinous disdain. "We can _try,_ master," he grumbled.

Qui Gon lifted a brow. "There is no try…. And I _am_ a monster and a lunatic, am I not?"

Alepo Sator chuckled throatily at this assertion. He slapped a soil-crusted hand against the young Jedi's shoulder. "Glad to know I'm leaving you in good hands, lad. It's been a pleasure."

Obi Wan regretfully set aside his irritation with Qui Gon and offered the horticulturalist a brilliant smile. "Indeed. I am honored to have met you, Alepo Sator, and to have worked beside you." He bowed deeply, hands folded into opposite sleeves.

Qui Gon mirrored the gesture. "May the Force be with you," he added, and turned to ascend the ramp of the waiting Republic ship.

Alepo waved them off with a short and dismissive gesture and turned his misshapen back toward his dilapidated speeder, and the distant gleaming domes of his private domain. The Jedi watched him depart in a cloud of dust, his transport dwindling to a speck as he raced away. Qui Gon looked down at his Padawan, and Obi Wan looked up at his master.

And with a gentle shush of pressure pistons, the boarding ramp slowly closed behind them.


End file.
